


Pity The Free Man

by Ergott



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Botched HYDRA mind wipes, Canon-Typical Violence, Confused Winter Soldier/Bucky, F/M, Flashbacks, Flirty Bucky, Hobo!fic, Homeless people living underground, Hurray for Smut, Moral Ambiguity, Non-Penetrative Sex, Oral Sex, PTSD, Post CA:WS, Power Dynamics, Protective Bucky Barnes, Survival story, To go with Bucky's hobo hair, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-03-14 22:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 77,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3427661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ergott/pseuds/Ergott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post CA:WS. The Winter Soldier has gone to ground, trying to heal before he sets off on a journey to reclaim his past. While camping in the labyrinthine sewer system beneath DC, he meets a kindred spirit. Even though she claims that all she wants is solitude, they form a bond and, away from HYDRA’s influence, old behaviors start to reassert themselves. Because Bucky Barnes is nothing, if not protective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I was a little late to the Winter Soldier party, since I only got to see it once it hit TV. After that I tore through the available fics in record time and decided, "Yeah, I want in on that." So, here we are. I'm writing and editing a couple chapters out, so hopefully I'll be able to update once a week or so, until the story is finished. I honestly have no idea how long it will end up being; my writing either ends up novella length or novel+, there's rarely an in-between. 
> 
> Based solely on the movie!verse so I have the freedom to draw my own conclusions regarding Bucky's past. Also, the first chapter is a bit on the short side, so sorry for that; just think of it as a prologue.
> 
> Story title and lyrics taken from Abney Park's, 'Pity The Free Man'.

** Pity The Free Man **

_Please pity the free man;_

_Have mercy on me._

_Don't rip my throat from my body,_

_I'm just trying to be free._

 

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky.

It didn’t feel right, didn’t fit. And yet, as the Winter Soldier regarded the display of the smiling young man before him, he couldn’t deny that it was anyone other than himself pictured there. The hair was shorter, face less drawn, and eyes focused but happy, perhaps even playful—he couldn’t pull his own features into that expression anymore, but here was proof that he’d been able to at some point.

Proof that he’d been a person once. More than just a designation, more than just a tool. He’d had autonomy, a life to do with as he willed. Steve Rogers knew about that life, perhaps more so than any person alive, and he was obviously willing to share it for the chance to resurrect old ghosts. The prospect was as exhilarating as it was terrifying.

Because HYDRA wasn’t gone. HYDRA was everywhere and he wasn’t strong enough yet to completely fight off all the years of their brainwashing. If they recaptured him and sent him back on his mission to terminate Captain America, he could very well end up killing the only remaining link to his past and he probably wouldn’t even know he was doing it.

So as much as he wanted to find Steve Rogers and just _ask_ about the information the other man was potentially holding, he couldn’t risk it. Not until he was stronger, not until he felt like he could endure the mental trauma that reclaiming his identity would inflict.

So he ran, because what was a little more time after seventy years? He ran because Bucky Barnes _deserved_ another shot at life and no one, no matter their intention, was going to force that until the time was right.

He ended up underground; DC was honeycombed with tunnels, a veritable labyrinth of potential escape routes. The Winter Soldier felt safe there, even if he wasn’t alone. Other lost souls had found their way below—homeless, bewildered, forgotten, or mad. He didn’t mind; the important part was simply that they weren’t HYDRA.

* * *

Emmaline Levoux.

It probably wasn’t her name, but she’d chosen it so there was strength there. And right now, she needed all the strength she could get. For three years she’d been playing her deadly game of hide and seek—playing, and winning. She was the _grand friggen champion_ of not being found. Because being found wouldn’t spell the end for just her; it’d be _Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte_ for everyone who opposed… whoever it was she was running from.

Funny how she could remember why she was hiding, but not from who.

Her brain was like a badly scrambled egg: the things she couldn’t remember were odd and specific. She remembered growing up nestled between the Catskills and the Appalachians, but she couldn’t remember her name or the names of family; she remembered going to college, but not what she’d studied; she remembered making a huge breakthrough, but not why she’d suddenly become so horrified by it.

Only, those last two she could guess based on the nature of the devices she’d swiped before getting herself gone. They looked so innocent, too—a pair of arm guards, a tiny pocket computer, and a handful of little metal spheres. But those spheres could topple whole cities, so she stayed hidden with them, flitting this way and that and praying no one managed to replicate the research that had led up to their creation.

The burden was wearing on her though; the longer she hid, the less aware she became. Emma had lost track of time more than once. She’d even lost track of the seasons and had missed her opportunity to skip town; the nights were too cold to make the trek down to Florida now. She would have to stay where she was and pray that the coming winter didn’t kill her. Wintering underground wouldn’t be easy—she’d always followed the yearly migration to the Floridian shanty-towns, so she wasn’t exactly prepared.

Still, freezing to death was hardly penance enough for the sins she’d clearly committed.

Even with that sentiment firmly in place, Emma’s desire to stay put began to falter less than a week later. People came and went in the tunnels—sometimes back above for another chance to see the sun, and sometimes deeper below because they _wanted_ to be lost—but it was unusual for a new player to enter so abruptly in the cold months. The DC tunnels were cold and damp, a recipe for hypothermia and pneumonia. Only the hardcore or the insensible stayed behind when the masses moved South. Even so, there _were_ some who stayed, and the newcomer seemed to have them in a thrall.

He was taciturn and prized his solitude, a good candidate for just another brick in the wall, but within days of arriving he shot from faceless nobody to top dog. It wasn’t clear if he wanted the power or simply didn’t know how _not_ to take it, but the fact remained that he was the big noise now until someone plucked up the courage to challenge him.

She’d been told once that drastic power shifts weren’t unusual in the winter, seeing as there was such a radical shift in population, but something about this newcomer put her on edge. He was everywhere and nowhere; a constant, unseen presence surveying his kingdom. Emma didn’t want to be seen—it was the cornerstone principle of her life now: never be worthy of interest—and yet she still felt the weight of his scrutiny. Then again, so did everyone else, so perhaps in that she was still unremarkable.

It didn’t stop her from going out of her way to avoid him, though. He had, somewhat miraculously, set up a supply line from the real world. It wasn’t much, and only the necessities—fresh food, clean water, and warm clothes—but it was more than most of them had had in a long time. He didn’t even ask for anything in return, only stipulated that supplies be rationed out evenly. Their very own grim, unsmiling Father Christmas.

The availability of fresh goods was a deep temptation, but she was so unnerved by his presence, so terrified of those piercing eyes, that she only went when it was an emergency. Which was basically never, because if there was one thing that her time flying under the radar had taught her it was how to pickpocket pickpockets. She was careful, more so than she really needed to be, but the idea of Mr. Top Dog catching her stealing when there was surplus available made her break out in a cold sweat. He’d probably be insulted.

* * *

The Winter Soldier was vaguely insulted. He’d gone out of his way, _at great personal risk_ , to make sure that the bitter and brutal tunnels were mildly habitable to normal people. It was a simple game of ingratiation—no one was going to go blabbing to strangers about the guy spreading around free food—so it was bothersome that someone was _not_ properly ingratiated.

He’d only seen his little fly in the ointment up close once, when the supplies had slowly begun to trickle in. The little thing had stumbled close, unrecognizable under grubby face coverings and a tatty coat, and had snatched an oversized pair of waterproof boots before scurrying away. The kid probably needed a lot more, but had never worked up the courage to come back. He figured it was a young boy, about fourteen or fifteen based on the small stature, so the fear wasn’t surprising. The fact that the boy turned to petty thievery in order to make ends meet was. How was facing the goodwill of an imposing man worse than potentially facing his wrath? There was no logic to it.

To give him credit though, the kid was good. And fair, in his own way—he never took more food than necessary and rarely stole from the same person if he could help it. That didn’t make the decision any less baffling, however. Commodities were available for free, so why risk starting a fight? He clearly didn’t want to be seen, yet his concerted behavior worked against him. Because the Winter Soldier saw him, watched the little pickpocket and studied his ways.

The boy was unnervingly silent. Not a single swish of fabric betrayed his presence; he was there and gone before most could even take notice. But the silence, in itself, was a giveaway to someone like the Winter Soldier, a pocket of pure noiselessness that couldn’t exist down in the tunnels and yet followed the boy everywhere he went. Not a single slap of booted feet on stone, not the hiss of an indrawn breath, not even the rough cadence of speech, nothing but the complete absence of sound.

It was so grossly unnatural that he found himself seeking the kid out. Watching him from the shadows, hoping to catch an errant sound or a glimpse of something that might explain the preternatural quiet. The boy flitted this way and that, but never strayed far from the tunnel he’d bedded down in. He had a small shanty there—a decent enough fortification that suggested he’d been in the tunnels for some time. There were even decorations: strands of eye-catching junk hung from pole to pole in an effort to make hell look like home.

The quiet had to be facilitated somehow, because once the kid was home he became a symphony of noises. The abruptness of the shift cried technical assistance, and it made the Winter Soldier uneasy. It had previously occurred to him that the kid could be a HYDRA scout, but he very much seemed to go out of his way to avoid the Winter Soldier. Why else would he keep away from the supply line so thoroughly when he was clearly in need? Besides, the timeline didn’t quite match up; unless this kid had stolen the shanty from someone else, it was obvious that he’d been down here much longer than the Winter Soldier had been on the run from HYDRA.

So while he wasn’t necessarily a problem, he did represent a conundrum, and the Winter Soldier had nothing but time on his hands. He’d figure the kid out sooner or later.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma and the Winter Soldier finally meet. It does not go that great.

Emma found her days slipping seamlessly into routine. The cold made it difficult, sometimes even dangerous to sleep, so she did it in quick shifts, grabbing a couple hours between bouts of activity. She divided her waking hours between skimming food off others and wandering the tunnels—she knew her surroundings fairly well, but a wrong turn could threaten to take her into uncharted territory; she liked to explore in case she ever needed to make a hasty retreat.

The days and nights blended together, an unbroken stream of unmarked time. Even with the ever present threat of Mr. Top Dog, she began to lose herself, slipping into a mental fog as her body ran on autopilot.

Until the gifts started appearing outside her door. That woke her up.

She’d long ago chosen to settle in a poorly trafficked offshoot, away from the heart of the community. People tended not to wander in because of the poor state of her tunnel. It was older, clearly abandoned long ago, and had suffered a partial cave-in. She’d fortified her shanty against a wall of rubble, appreciating the security of knowing no one could come at her from behind now.

Emma hadn’t considered how unnerving it would be to have someone come at her from the front. It felt like arrogance, like a show of authority—someone thought they had the right to invade her territory and the idea had her stomach twisting in knots. They’d left goodwill in their wake, though, whoever they were. The protein bars and brand new blankets they’d left behind would go a long way in easing the worst of her struggles.

The unwarranted kindness sent mixed signals, and it still felt like a violation. On the one hand, someone had cared enough to spread their good fortune around. On the other hand, it meant that someone had _noticed_ her enough to realize that she was in desperate need. Sometimes local social workers or missionaries tried to make the outreach, but they rarely got so deep in the tunnels as this; it had to be from within the community itself. Apparently, she hadn’t been nearly as sneaky as she’d thought. Then again, Mr. Top Dog was freakishly regimental about his rations; maybe this was just a community-wide payoff from a surplus swell.

But after several days of anonymous donations, Emma had to face the fact that it was targeted and deliberate. The gifts were varied and thoughtful—everything from military-grade outerwear to canned goods—but they never came two days in a row and they never included water. She had a feeling that was deliberate, a subtle taunt to remind her that she should be going to the ration line. But if their intention was to draw her out, they’d very much coaxed her into doing the opposite; she rarely left her shanty now, only venturing away when the thirst became too great.

She felt hunted, under surveillance and unsure of who to blame for it. Others would have taken her good luck in stride, but Emma was merely worried. If it kept up much longer, she’d rather chance the journey to Florida than stay put. But just as she was starting to panic and hoard supplies for the dangerous trip ahead of her, the gifts dwindled and then came to a stop altogether.

The strange dance between her and her unseen benefactor had run its full course over what felt like about three weeks before terminating. Once the gifts stopped Emma had hoped to feel relief, to go back to her normal routines, but she was filled with such brittle anxiety that it became difficult to even move. She stayed swathed in her little nest, tearing through the meager supplies she’d amassed and growing thirstier by the hour. Sheer stubbornness held her down when the need became great, but she had to reconsider once her kidneys protested.

It was pain like she could only dimly remember, a dull agony that radiated from her lower back. The unbearable nature of it practically crippled her, kept her curled on her side as wave after wave of unrelenting torture bunched and seized weak muscles. The pain reached such a fever pitch that she knew she’d have to venture out—even if it meant crawling to help on hands and knees—or let it kill her. There would be no in between if she waited much longer, it was one or the other. Death seemed like a fairly welcome reprieve, but without her there would be no one to guard the devices. She would have to soldier on.

Emma had just gotten unsteadily to her feet, hunched uncomfortably over her sleeping pallet and groaning in pain when she heard movement outside her door. Calling it a door was likely too generous, as it was just a canvas curtain strung through a gap in her fortifications, but it served its purpose. Right now it was moving, being pulled aside by a large, masculine hand. A figure briefly blocked her doorway, a man bigger than the actual doorway itself, but then he was moving, ducking in and through, relentlessly invading her space.

Emma felt frozen in place, desperately wanting to bolt but knowing she’d only hurt herself right now if she tried. Instead, she folded down, back onto her pallet, and made an undignified noise.

The man paused at her sound, as if _awestruck_ that she would even _dare_ , but then he sighed. “I don’t understand this stubbornness of yours.” His voice was gravelly and low, the words somewhat monotone but holding an undercurrent of frustration. “You’d rather dehydrate and starve than accept freely given necessities?”

She wanted to tell mystery man exactly where he could stick his goodwill, but her attention was caught by the jug he’d brought. It was a heavy-duty military affair: thick plastic, triple filtered, five to ten gallons of pure, clean water. It was only after she’d moaned in relief and reached out to pet its cool, slick surface that she bothered to take in the man effortlessly offering the jug to her: it was none other than Mr. Top Dog himself.

He was lean, like a hungry wolf, but had enough height and broadness in the shoulders to give others pause. He was muscular too, not in the flashy way of a bodybuilder, but in the practical, efficient manner of someone who needed that strength to survive. His longish hair had been pulled under a knit cap and the lines of his face were obscured by a thick stubble that was threatening to turn into a proper beard. And those eyes, those piercing, seeing, bright blue eyes pinned her to the spot as he studied her in turn.

He seemed, somewhat perversely, just as perturbed to see her as she was to see him.

* * *

The Winter Soldier had clearly caught the kid off guard, only half dressed and stubbornly sulking in the confines of the little shanty. The “kid” before him, though, obviously wasn’t who he’d assumed _she_ was.

In the clunky boots, frumpy coat, and ratty face coverings he’d thought her a young boy but now, sans outerwear, there was no mistaking the womanly flare of her hips. She was still small, still young, but generously older than he’d originally estimated, perhaps by so much as even a decade.

Looking passed the general grime that homelessness tended to leave on all of them, he took her in. She was short and surprisingly curvy for someone living in such strife. Probably dark haired, though it was hard to tell through the dirt. Her heart-shaped face was highlighted by pale eyes and pouty lips. Overall, she was vaguely reminiscent of the beautiful cheesecake pin-up posters that he had glimpsed at the Smithsonian. A veritable world away from the adolescent boy he’d mistakenly imagined.

Either his powers of observation were slipping, or this woman was an expert at hiding in plain sight.

“Why bother?” She asked, interrupting his thoughts. Her voice was low and husky from disuse, but pleasing in a way that things from HYDRA generally hadn’t been. With a careful tug, she pulled the water bottle from him, curling around it defensively. “You’re clearly new to the game,” she shrugged, reverently prying the lid off in order to dip a grubby metal mug inside.

“What?” The Winter Soldier frowned. The woman had to be a survivor to have lived down here for any length of time and his help would only increase her comfort. Why fight that?

She rolled in that beautifully Gallic shrug again, sipping daintily even though she obviously wanted to chug the water down. “You’re the new big noise in these parts,” she admitted after several long minutes. “And we might be homeless, but there are still politics involved down here. People like me just keep our heads down and go about our business, because big noises come and go.” She waived her now empty mug through the air, as though that expressed her apathy any better than her shrugging. “I don’t have any aspirations, I’m not looking to pick a fight—approaching you would be like declaring sides, and I prefer to remain neutral.”

She was the _only_ one. People had been wary of his supply line at first, but now they practically worshipped him for it. If there was any opposition to his perceived authority, it certainly wasn’t vocal. But for her sake, to keep her talking, he played along with her line of reasoning. “Even if that declaration might afford you some measure of safety?”

The woman grinned widely, but it didn’t reach her pretty eyes. “My greatest desire is for people to not even take notice of me, and as you know I am very good at that. Shadows don’t need protection.”

“But they do need food,” he replied, tilting his head and raising a brow. If it hadn’t been for him, she would have starved by now, yet still she refused to be grateful!

“Why risk fostering dependency?” She raised a brow of her own, refilling her mug, but eventually admitted, “People are going to miss you when you’re gone, you make things easier down here. But eventually you _will_ be gone.” That shrug again, like their worlds weren’t even remotely connected. “Life will go back to normal, to scrimping and scrounging, and I will be at the top of my game while everyone else is trying to remember how they got along without you.” And yet, for all her pretty words, she very studiously ignored that she was drinking water he’d provided.

He _did not_ , however. “Your easy prey will dwindle,” he pointed out. “The food you steal is still the food I supply, even if you don’t get it directly from me. If you’re damned either way, why not take advantage? At least in the ration line you could get enough to set a little aside, build up a stock.”

She apparently found criticism in his words. Her brows snapped down, eyes darkening as a snarl curled her lips. “I am doing _just fine_ on my own, thank you.”

He looked pointedly at the water jug. “You didn’t even have that much without me. How is that doing fine?”

“The winter caught me off guard,” she bristled, clutching the jug closer. “I usually go South with everyone else, so I was a little under prepared, that’s all.”

He had started this whole venture as a means of enticement. To show her what was available, get her used to the goods, then slowly cut her off until she returned to the supply line on her own. He’d never given her water out of the hope that she might soften to the manipulation faster. Who would say no to clean water when they had nothing else to drink? He hadn’t counted on how stubborn she’d turned out to be. Whatever her reasons for staying away were, she was apparently willing to die for them. As the hours had ticked into days without any hint that she’d even left her shanty, let alone joined the ration line, he’d grown concerned. The plan was to ingratiate the “kid”, not kill her.

Now, after making another, if somewhat guiltier house-call, he couldn’t believe her words. Her idea of under prepared was basically not prepared at all. How had she even survived this long on that sort of mentality? More than ever, it seemed imperative to get her to fall in line with the rest. “You could get almost everything you need in one shot. Why bother stealing what’s readily available? Just join the supply line.”

The woman rolled her eyes and quipped, “What are you, the one man General Store Mafia? What do you care if I’m stocked or not?”

Good question. Regardless of how the game had started, he was concerned for more than her obedience now. The idea of her suffering when it was so utterly unnecessary filled him with a little knot of panic. He might have reveled in the simple discovery that he was starting to feel _anything at all_ if the emotion hadn’t left him vaguely nauseated.

It had been strangely easier to deal with her when he hadn’t known she was a woman.

* * *

It was hard for Emma to read his expressions. Aside from the occasional moue of frustration or sarcastic brow raise, Mr. Top Dog was a closed book. His eyes held a curious blankness that came and went, snapping through emotions like a guttering flame. If she were a gambling woman, she would have bet that she’d seen something altogether frantic echoing from those icy blues, but it was there and gone so quickly that she figured she must have imagined it.

And why not, really? It’s not like he had a reason to care. His insistence on outfitting her was clearly just a power play. He wanted the satisfaction of knowing everyone was in his debt, because no one was going to bite the hand that fed them. The deeper they all fell under his thrall, the longer he’d remain in power. And, even though she’d claimed no aspirations, she was clearly his only opposition. It was all so basely political that it made her want to heave.

Then again, the desire to puke might have been a side effect of the mild dehydration. Her kidneys were still roiling in discomfort, but the worst of the pain had passed as she sipped at the water. She wanted to gulp it down as fast as she could, but from experience she knew that really _would_ make her vomit; she had to take it easy, drinking small amounts over short periods of time. Whatever was left after she’d recovered could be carefully rationed out for the coming days.

Her unwanted guest seemed to notice her shift in focus. “You know,” he pointed out quietly, “most people would be grateful for the help.”

Emma felt the back of her neck heat up. “I’m not… _un_ grateful,” she tried to explain. “But you backed me into a corner. I live my life on my own terms; I don’t like being told what to do.”

He knelt down beside her, tilting his head as he regarded her frown. “I feel the same way,” he admitted, “so I know how angry it makes you to be up against the wall here.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“ _I don’t ask you your reasons, so don’t ask me mine,_ ” he snapped, temper catching both of them by surprise. “If you want to starve yourself to death, then you’d better do it in someone else’s tunnels. I’m not just going to stand by and watch somebody suffer that way.” A deep breath, a visible attempt to rein in his wildly flaring emotions. “If you’re staying then you’d better suck it up, honey, because this is the way it is.”

His attitude was such a strange blend of domineering arrogance and pure moral outrage that Emma wasn’t sure how to respond. Somewhere in his own past he must have been faced with the trauma of starvation, because it had clearly left a mark on him.

She considered her options, such as they were. Joining the others at the supply line felt too much like begging for attention. On the other hand, she never wanted to go that long without water again. Unsure of how to parse out those thoughts, she quietly admitted, “I don’t want to starve to death.”

He seemed mollified by that confession, the worst of his temper slipping quickly away. “No one does,” he agreed cautiously, clearly waiting for her, _‘But...’_

Emma didn’t disappoint. “But I _do_ want to be left alone.”

Mr. Top Dog very nearly chuckled, sarcastically returning, “I hadn’t guessed.”

“Then we’re at an impasse,” she replied, not sharing his humor.

That obviously wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “ _Christ,_ ” he snapped, temper rearing back up, “at least go back to stealing then!” The words came out of him in a rush—like he didn’t want to say them but couldn’t stop himself—and he was visibly unsettled by that. His gloved right hand came up to pinch the bridge of his nose while his left merely clenched at his side.

“And you’re okay with that?” He very plainly wasn’t, but she couldn’t help pushing a bit.

“Oh, I didn’t say I’d stop trying to change your mind,” he glared, hand dropping. “But if you’re determined that your only two options are going to be thievery or death by starvation, I’d rather have you out there stealing.”

It was strangely magnanimous of him, even though none of it was really his concern. She wouldn’t welcome his charity, but she could endure it now that she had a rough idea of where they both stood. The idea of him still watching, still interfering, fairly made her breakout in hives, but it was as good of a compromise as either of them were likely to reach. “Thank you.”

He paused, considering. “For the supplies or semi-permission to steal?”

“Semi-permission,” Emma smiled. They both knew she’d never thank him for anything else. Not when he wanted it so badly. “I never asked for your generous donations.”

“You are _difficult_ ,” he snarled, but it didn’t have the same snap as his anger. This was almost admiring, despite his clear frustration. “Do you do it on purpose?”

“I know what you want, and you’re never going to hear me say it.”

“You just did,” he pointed out stubbornly.

“But not in the context you were after,” she grinned widely, perversely happy for upsetting him so much, “and we both know that it’s the context that counts.”

And after that, life more or less went back to normal. Emma found the strength to go back out into the tunnels, exploring and gleaning, as was her wont. Mr. Top Dog didn’t exactly leave her alone, though. His presence was more apparent than ever—he’d given up lurking in the shadows and every time she looked up, _there he was_ watching her from a distance. It was eerie and disconcerting, but she couldn’t ask him to stop so she endured it. She didn’t like his attention, but at least he was the only one that seemed to take notice of her. In the grand scheme of things, what was one man?

She retracted that thought entirely when he stopped maintaining his distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to wait a full week before posting this chapter, but I just get so excited about the stories I'm writing. Also, that first chapter was pretty short, so I figured this would be a nice apology. 
> 
> I'd like to thank jjgoodhope, maxiekat, Caraxu, and regin for all leaving lovely comments; I basically read your kind encouragements and then wrote the entirety of chapter six in a straight shot. So thank you! And thank you to everyone who left a kudos or bookmarked the story as well.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winter Soldier continues his campaign of abject bribery. Also, vague but unconfirmed allusions to the Great Depression.

He was using her as a distraction. The Winter Soldier’s pride wasn’t so great that he couldn’t admit that. She was a welcome relief from the gauzy blankness of his mind, from the unwanted memories of death and blood. From the fear that he would never be capable of reclaiming his own identity. She elicited normal emotions from him—not rage or violence, but frustration and curiosity, maybe even a touch of fondness. The woman and her contrary stubbornness occupied his thoughts enough to make him feel… focused. He wouldn’t go so far as to say that his thoughts were changing, but his scope _was_ expanding, reawakening to include mundane things like feeling cold or hungry or exasperated.

As he watched her struggling in the most human ways possible, he, himself, began to feel like less and less of a machine. It was… largely uncomfortable, but he regarded this slowly increasing humanity as strength. Fundamentally, he knew there was weakness in caring but, then, Steve Rogers cared, _cared deeply_ , and he’d been able to face off against HYDRA because of that.

And something about the woman was familiar, though not really her, personally, so much as her situation. He felt useful in this underground community, oddly at home, as if he’d fought this desperate battle against the elements before. In the quiet hours when the woman was nestled asleep in her shanty, he felt his sense deja vu grow, like he was on the verge of remembering something about himself. He wasn’t sure if that prospect terrified him or not, but it did keep him close to her.

The Winter Soldier had tried justifying that dwindling distance at first. She wasn’t necessarily a threat, but the woman was spiteful—if he piqued her temper enough, she might go out of her way to lead outsiders in his direction. But that was pretty flimsy as far as excuses went and, after a few days, he’d had to abandon this line of reasoning. He knew with absolute certainty that she would never do that because she, too, was hiding from something. No, he stayed close because she made him feel like more than just a tool for HYDRA, like he was allowed to _expect_ more out of life and _be_ more as a person.

Her secrets made him doubly uneasy now. Her preternatural silence, her willingness to hurt herself in order to stay hidden, and the fact that he didn’t know who she was hiding from all bothered him deeply. Because, though neither of them had mentioned it, she always had a third option between starving and stealing: she could risk leaving. And if she did that, all his new found and growing emotion might go with her. So what if his reasons for wanting to protect her were deeply selfish? He still needed to know what battles she was fighting, still needed a face to put to her enemies so that she wouldn’t have to struggle alone and therefore wouldn’t be tempted to leave.

But the woman was like an abandoned dog—twice shy now and viciously angry about it. His help raised her hackles, made her skittish and snappish. How was he supposed to work around that when he was barely capable of even leaving her alone? Resuming some kind of personal interaction might eventually lead to her tolerating his presence, but it also ran the risk of completely alienating her.

Then again, if he was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t, he might as well give in to temptation. Besides, he _had_ warned her that he wouldn’t stop his campaign for her to join the rest of the community.

The Winter Soldier had to appreciate the tactical simplicity of her shanty. Built against a collapsed wall, she had ensured that no one would ever be able to approach her from behind. It did limit her mobility though; if surrounded or cut off from the front, she would have no clear escape route. Not to mention that there was no way of knowing when or if further tunnel collapse was likely to occur. And, despite the impressive size of her fortification, she still lacked certain amenities that the rest of the community had.

Like heat, for example; barrel and stove fires were always dotted between the lines of their tents and lean-tos. Fuel for the fires was tricky, but the upper reaches of the tunnel network were constantly littered with debris from the outside world, so it wasn’t _impossible_ to find something to burn. Camp heaters would have been more efficient, but he hadn’t wanted to draw attention to the regular acquisition of that much gasoline. Besides, even though they didn’t completely chase away the cold, something about an open fire kept spirits high. How long had it been since she’d last gazed into the bright lick of flames and felt hope? He had a feeling even she didn’t know the answer to that question, and he wanted to rectify it.

So he studied her movements, found the rhythm of her schedule and planned around her. She didn’t sleep much and spent a great deal of time away from home, an unheard specter gliding through the tunnels. And, even though he knew he wasn’t welcome, he relied on her excursions in order to study her shanty.

It was surprisingly well-built given that she’d only had canvas, broken lumber, and rusted pieces of sheet metal to work with. The crude “cabin” was just tall enough to stand in at the entrance, but it sloped toward the back end where she’d set up her sleeping pallet. One side wall was occupied by a set of cinder-block shelves, though they held little of interest aside from a few remaining protein bars and some dingy looking utensils. The opposite wall was blank.

He considered the layout for several long minutes. It would be easy enough to just set a barrel outside her door, but bringing heat into her home seemed more impressive somehow. A fire brazier wouldn’t be hard to set up, as long as he ventilated the roof properly.

With that plan firmly in mind, he set to work.

* * *

Emma had known that Mr. Top Dog was drawing in, closer and closer, but finding him inside her home was still a shock.

He’d clearly been there for some time, given that there was now a serrated vent in her roof. Right under which he’d dug a large, circular hole that he was lining with a piece of pipe. The pipe was an old-fashioned riveted affair, inch-thick seams closing together to form a shape that was roughly two feet wide; the top edge was smooth, save for the rust, while the bottom edge, currently being driven into the hole, was jagged enough to ensure it wouldn’t move around once it was in place.

“What are you doing?”

He didn’t startle at the sound of her voice, had probably known she was there before she’d even spotted him. “I’m digging you a fire-pit,” he replied, continuing to hammer the pipe in place using nothing but his gloved fists.

Emma floundered for a moment. Fire? She had distant memories of camping with friends, sitting around bonfires in the deep dark of night and feeling safe. To have that simple reassurance again was mind-boggling. She could be warm, she could be content! But in the back of her mind, she knew she didn’t deserve it, that was why she’d never stolen a barrel in the past. She had created something monstrous and strife was her penance.

But, _oh_ , to have that bright comfort mere feet from her little bed! The thought almost made her tear up.

Lips numb, a quiet, “Why?” fell from her before she could stop it.

He looked up at her tone, a hint of satisfaction playing around his bright eyes, then returned to his work. There was something strange about the motion of his left arm—it was unnaturally fluid, and his impacts were stilted as if the flesh there were rigid. “Everyone else has access to fire.”

“Keeping Up With The Joneses: Homeless Edition?” She wanted to joke, wanted to make light of what he was doing for her, but they both knew better. Whether she wanted his help of not, he was bound and determined to see that she survived this winter and integrated with the rest of their little society. His warning shots had nearly devastated her, but this threatened to topple her resolve entirely.

“I did warn you that I wouldn’t give up,” he replied. Satisfied that the pipe was deep enough, he began to fill the pit from a bag of miscellany that sat behind him. First came some tinder, mostly newspaper and scruffy rats-nest material, then driftwood and odd sections of lumber—illicitly dumped construction garbage that flooded the upper tunnels—and another layer of tinder before he lit it.

The fire was slow to start, but it held her entranced. As the flames popped and hissed, smoke curled lazily upward, filtering out through the vent he’d made. It was so stupidly relaxing, so viscerally pleasing, that Emma could almost forget her troubles—let her mind blank and just exist in this single moment. She breathed out a sigh that sounded suspiciously like, “ _Thank you,_ ” even to her own ears.

Mr. Top Dog apparently understood her well enough not to gloat about her slip, but he was nevertheless visibly pleased about it. As if to forestall any arguments, he quickly began talking. “You’ll have to watch it carefully, make sure the embers don’t ignite anything. It shouldn’t take much to heat the shanty, though I don’t how well it will retain,” an easy shrug accompanied his caution, but the look in his eyes seemed to suggest that if he ever found her shivering now he’d probably set about insulating the stupid place. “If you find yourself a mesh or a metal rack and lay it across the lip of the pipe, you could heat up some water or canned goods.”

Emma had pulled herself close to the pit as if hypnotized. It wasn’t far off, the gentle bob and weave of the fire captivated her. Her guilt was never very far from her thoughts though, and they surfaced with a vengeance. “I don’t deserve this,” she blurted.

He frowned at her words, puzzled, but ultimately chose to ignore them, instead adding, “You can even use the ashes to make soap.”

The statement was so ridiculous that it caught her completely off guard. Brows snapping down, genuinely confused, she asked, “How?”

He shrugged, like soap-making was a totally normal thing that everybody did. “You boil wood ash in water to separate out the lye and then bind it with some kind of animal fat.”

“Were you some kind of a boyscout in a past life?” Who knew that kind of stuff off the top of their head? For the first time, Emma really began to wonder who Mr. Top Dog had been before he’d joined them underground.

He ignored her jibe. “You could create a handy line of trade commodities that no one else has access to.”

“Glossing over the fact that I’m almost positive you just tried to give me a job, I feel obligated to point out that no one is going to waste something as valuable as water on a secondary concern like hygiene.” She certainly wouldn’t. Everyone made peace with the squalor eventually, it wasn’t worth wasting precious resources trying to rectify.

“I think you’d be surprised how far some people are willing to go in order to feel human again,” he replied. There was a far away look stealing over him now. Although it probably would have been more fair to simply say that his eyes stuttered—blank, grief, blank, hope, blank.

“Besides,” she quested, unsettled by the generally alien nature of his moods, “where would I even get animal fat?”

He refocused on her and shrugged, “Cook down some rats.”

Rats were a simple fact of life down in the tunnels. They came and went as they pleased and were difficult to chase off. They didn’t really frighten her, but the thought of cooking them was gross. “I think you’re seriously overestimating the sort of interest that vermin-based soap is going to generate,” she told him with a certain touch of finality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another regrettably short chapter. I promise that the next one will absolutely make up for it, hand over fist!
> 
> I've thought it over a bit and realized that I'm maintaining a very rigorous writing schedule right now. As long as I keep that pace up, there's no reason I can't update twice a week. Probably Tuesdays and Fridays, since that's what I've been doing.
> 
> Just FYI: I added a few new tags (which I will continue to do as the story progresses). They won't be relevant for another couple of chapters, but I wanted to give people a heads up. That said, as serious/angsty as my tags can make the story sound, I like to temper those factors out with insightful character introspection and meaningful interactions. 
> 
> As always, thank you to all the wonderful readers who bookmarked the story or left kudos, and a very large thank you to BubbleBakerPenguinPie, jjgoodhope, and the anonymous Guest who left stunning comments!


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma and Bucky strike an accord. For better or worse, they're in this together now.

Despite herself, Emma still ended up trying to make the soap, mostly out of morbid curiosity. The mixture initially smelled so vile that she wanted to soak all of Mr. Top Dog’s clothes in it—see how quick he’d be to give out unsolicited advice after that—but eventually the stench petered out. Her bars were lumpy and uneven, but the stupid rat soap worked so she was still pretty proud.

Didn’t have the first idea what to do with them, though. Making the damn bars had wasted enough water and she refused to sacrifice more. Scrubbing her hands and allowing a quick swipe over her face had felt absurdly extravagant; there was no way she could justify more than that, which left her with an obscene amount of soap she refused to use.

Mr. Top Dog was right, though: it was a commodity that no one else had. If it proved even _half_ as popular as he seemed to think it would, she now had a very powerful bargaining chip. She could give up stealing and start trading for the goods she really wanted. But therein laid the problem—trading meant establishing contact and contact was the very exposure she was attempting to avoid. Unless…

Unless she could get Mr. Top Dog to do it for her. He’d already barged into her life, so there was no hiding from him; further contact wasn’t much of a risk. She could give him semi-regular batches of soap to distribute in exchange for him delivering the goods she needed from the ration line. It seemed like a pretty tidy solution to her. All she had to do was wait until his next visit in order to pitch the idea.

So, of course, he chose then to stay away. Never far, but she rarely caught more than a glimpse of him before he disappeared. If she hadn’t known any better, Emma would have guessed that he was teasing her. But she was not to be deterred. If that’s the way he wanted to play this game, then she’d take the idea to him, sneak into _his_ home for a change.

The heart of the community had settled in a series of large openings—what had probably once been maintenance bays back when those tunnels were still operational—creating a sort of campground. The bulk of the tents and crude shacks radiated outward, like a sprawling city, giving way to stragglers and outliers. She skirted the edges of their little town, keeping to the shadows as much as possible and relying on her devices to keep her unnoticed.

Mr. Top Dog had set himself up along the fringes of the community, apart but still visible. She had a feeling that his positioning was deliberate, because deep down he was really just as paranoid as she was. His tent was rather Bedouin in nature—large and structurally sound but clearly transportable, almost like an old fashioned medical tent. It was more or less the size of her shanty, perhaps even a little bigger; a drab monster meant to look as intimidating as its occupant. She was frankly surprised at the lack of visibility it offered him but, then, he was so hyper-vigilant it probably wasn’t an issue. Besides, who would be stupid enough to try to get the drop on him?

Emma stood outside his tent, breathing deeply as she admitted that _she_ was that idiot in question. She rarely traveled this deep into the community—just the thought of so many prying eyes made her nauseous—and she very distinctly did not want to do it again. If she caught Mr. Top Dog by surprise, maybe he’d be more agreeable. Part of her very much knew it was more likely that he would be the opposite, but her nerves were too shot to reason clearly.

She took another deep breath, toed at the dirty ground, and almost chickened out. In her mind she kept chanting, _“Water, food, warmth,”_ as incentive, building herself up. Her heart beat like crazy, but it was the calmest she was going to get. After several agonizing minutes, she finally reached out to draw the tent flap aside.

The inside of the tent was roomy, dim, and cold. It had been divided into clear living and sleeping spaces: a crash cot dominated one side, while the other was a collection of neatly organized supplies and scarce personal paraphernalia. Not for the first time, Emma considered the possibility that Mr. Top Dog was former military or paramilitary. Her first glimpse of him basically confirmed it.

He was sitting on his cot, sans shirt, the powerful muscles of his torso bunching and rotating as he worked on his left arm. Her gaze caught on the metal appendage. It was some sort of highly advanced prosthetic, shaped perfectly like the other arm, but made up of freely moving metal plates that allowed him a beyond normal range of motion.

It seemed she wasn’t the only one keeping secrets.

* * *

The fact that he hadn’t noticed the woman enter his territory was troubling. Not a single sound betrayed her presence. He merely looked up and there she was, like a ghost appearing from the aether. A shocked ghost whose gaze was stuck on his cybernetic arm.

He’d done his best to keep that one a secret. People underground knew him now—he had not kept a low profile. But even if any of them had been inclined to gossip, exactly how far would tall, Caucasian male with dark hair and light eyes get anyone? Metal arm, though? That was a bit of an identifying feature. But it wasn’t like he could keep it perpetually covered; the arm required regular maintenance or it would lock up. Which wasn’t usually a problem since no one ever came into his tent—intimidation had its perks—and yet the one person who likely feared him above all others had just sauntered in. Of course, he’d been goading her to break her distance, but he hadn’t expected her to march straight into his quarters.

She didn’t seem perturbed about the unnatural limb though, merely curious, appraising. Her head titled and she raised a finger to point, but when she opened her mouth to speak no sound accompanied.

He mimicked her expression, tilting his head and pointing. “Tit for tat, you know. Your silence has dumbfounded me. Now that you know my secret, do I get to see yours?”

She grimaced, but accepted his fair play rules. Shucking her coat and rolling up her sleeves, she revealed the source of her unusual power. Her arms were covered by a series of braces, flexible mesh webbing interlocking with rigid bands of metal, all the way from wrist to bicep. The devices were clearly removable, but it didn’t look as if she’d taken them off in some time—dirt had gathered around the seams and her skin was chaffed raw there.

He reached out to touch one brace, but she flinched violently and pulled away. “What are these?”

The woman fiddled with a tiny control panel. When the devices powered down there was an almost audible whoosh of ambient sound returning. Then she squared her shoulders and attempted to answer him. “S-” She swallowed hard, tried again, “Sound dampeners?”

He frowned. That was definitely a question, which meant sound dampening was probably more of just a side effect.

She eyed his frown with displeasure, clearly not used to talking about it. Eventually she huffed, “They create a shell of counter-frequency around the user.”

That went a long way in explaining the general picture he’d formed of her. “Full body silencers,” he appreciated, wonderingly.

“Full body protection,” she corrected, frown deepening. “Like the ultimate bullet-proof vest.”

That was deadly useful, but it did beg the question, “Who would be shooting at you?”

She shrugged and evaded. “They _can_ stop bullets, but I didn’t say that’s what they were designed for.”

And that was a problem. He wouldn’t push, because she obviously wasn’t going to tell, but their exact function seemed important. It would at least give him a better idea of who’d created them and if they were the reason she was in hiding in the first place. The design smacked a bit of HYDRA— small, independent power source, blue lights and shiny metal—as did her desperation, but it was hard to be sure.

The possibility that it could be HYDRA complicated matters. On the one hand, it meant that the tunnels were secure; she’d been down here for some time and hadn’t been discovered. On the other hand, it seemed HYDRA was far more likely to find them now that two potential targets were in the same place. And that didn’t even begin to take into account where her loyalties laid and how likely she was to sell him out in order to save herself. It still felt kind of comforting to think they might have a common enemy, though; an army of two was far more stable than fighting alone.

“Were you a soldier?” She interrupted his thoughts, hesitated then, quieter, asked, “Did you lose your arm in the war?”

He was resolved not to be sensitive about it. Tit for tat, after all; she’d revealed enough of her own secrets to deserve something in return. So he shrugged and said, “Yes,” because it was true, even if it wasn’t anywhere close to the war she was thinking of.

“I’ve never seen a prosthetic quite like it,” she replied, curiosity apparent. For a moment, she seemed to become someone else entirely, gaze focused and voice pitched low as she studied his arm. “Capable of precise, fluid movement, clearly relayed by your thoughts like a natural limb… whoever made this really knew what they were doing.” As did she, if she could tell that much with a simple glance. For the first time, it struck him that for all he knew about her from studying her behavior, he knew nothing about the woman she’d been before she’d sought the safety of the tunnels. Her interest seemed professional—perhaps she’d been a scientist or a doctor in her former life.

Cautiously, she reached out, not wanting to upset him, while he remained stiffly still, not wanting to upset her. From the very beginning, he’d known that her lifestyle precluded any physical contact—she _wanted_ to live in a vacuum. He wasn’t sure if he was used to the idea of touching, but he wasn’t against it. If she wanted to initiate contact, then he’d let her.

Her hand touched his left forearm, fingertips light as they traced the minuscule seams between metal plates. He savored that gentleness; it was the first time he could remember anyone laying a hand on him in any context other than violence.

“It’s like something out of a movie,” she breathed. “Can you… can you feel with it?”

“After a fashion,” he replied, watching her fingers work their way down toward his wrist. “I don’t get the same sensation as with the right arm, but it’s more than just simple pressure.”

She studied the intricate interplays that made up his hand, gently prodding at the joints to test their range of motion. “I know I’ve been down here a while, but I’m certain they’re not handing these out at the average hospital. Where’d you get it?”

Her question wasn’t malicious, but he’d been around too many spies to trust her intentions. Instead of answering, he carefully captured her searching fingers and reached out with his free hand to touch one of her covered forearms. “Where’d you get those arm braces?”

Silence answered him. She didn’t pull away from his touch in order to put distance between them, but her eyes had gone shuttered—she was as done sharing as he was, yet the contact lingered.

He had to smile at their mutual caution. They were like peas in a pod, really. “Well, it seems our tit for tat arrangement has finally hit a wall. So, was there a reason behind your visit?”

* * *

His smile caught her off guard. On the few occasions they had been in close range, Emma had considered him severe to the point of being dour. But that slight, self-deprecating twist of his lips made it clear that, under all the dirt and scruffy facial hair, he was probably a very handsome man. Or had been at some point. And she couldn’t help but notice that he seemed more open and personable today. It wasn’t a huge change, but he was definitely less robotic than she remembered. His voice had dropped the monotone edge, allowing intonations to color his words with a bit of personality.

She tried to abandon those thoughts; he was already in her life more than she wanted, she didn’t need to start liking him too. So she focused on his question to distract herself. “I made the soap.”

He didn’t seem surprised, but he was very clearly pleased. “And?”

“No one likes a gloater,” she snapped at his smug tone. “It smelled awful, if you must know.”

“But it worked.”

“Yes, it worked.” Her eyes darted and she was shocked to realize they were still holding hands. Or rather, that he was still holding her hand in that amazing prosthetic that she couldn’t believe existed outside the realm of science fiction. She wanted to map the whole thing out with the flat of her hand, wanted to study the angry looking seam between flesh and metal, but the moment for free exploration had clearly passed. Instead, she slipped her hand out of his and broached the subject of why she’d come. “Now I’m low on water and I’ve got more soap than I know what to do with. So I was wondering if we couldn’t work out a trade. I’ll give you the soap to distribute in your supply line in return for you delivering my share directly to me.”

He considered it for several long minutes, but ultimately shook his head and replied, “No dice.”

She couldn’t believe it. “It’s a fair trade! Mutually beneficial.” Why did he have to be so _stubborn?_ If they went along with her idea, everybody got what they needed. What more could he want?

But he didn’t give in to her complaint, countering with, “I’ll set aside your share, I’ll even increase your water ration to compensate for the soap making, but you’ll pick them up yourself.”

So they were back to that, were they? His desire to buy the hearts and minds of everyone in the tunnels was disrupting her way of life. She didn’t appreciate his high-handed attitude, but it was hard to argue when he was the one with greater bargaining power.

“That’s not enough compensation for the amount of effort I’m putting in,” she pointed out, hoping to soften him to her reasoning. “You know I don’t want to be seen.”

Mr. Top Dog shrugged, uncaring. “And you know that I want you to at least marginally join the community. If neither of us are going to get what we want, we might as well compromise. I won’t do home delivery for you, but I’ll let you pick up you supplies here, in private.”

That was still a risk. While it offered her minimal exposure, it still enforced a certain amount of interaction with him, and the first thing she’d learned on the streets was never to get attached to anyone. He wasn’t likely to offer her a better scenario though, and at least this way she would still be receiving more than she _ever_ would have been capable of stealing.

“It’s not ideal,” she replied after weighing her options, “but I like that thought more than being out in the line.”

He still seemed irked by her refusal to join in, but he took it in stride. “Then we’re agreed.”

“How much soap will you need?”

He moved her back a little so that he could stand, then reached for a shirt, dressing as he considered aloud, “Fresh supplies come in about every two weeks, but the best items are gone within the first couple of days.” He slipped a thick coat on and tucked his hair under a cap, looking remarkably similar to the day he’d first spoken to her. “There will be a lot of interest in the soap at first, which will taper off as it becomes more available. Let’s say about two or three dozen bars to begin with and see what happens.”

“I’m going to have to set up a lot of rat snares,” she mumbled. His estimate seemed a little unreasonable, but if he planned to compensate her for each batch then she wasn’t going to quibble. She _was_ low on supplies though. “And I’m going to need a lot more water and wood ash if you really think three dozen is necessary.”

“It’s just a ballpark number, sweetheart,” he smiled again, slowly as if unfamiliar with the gesture, but genuine all the same. He’d definitely been a heart breaker, once upon a time. “We’ll probably need more than that, but you’ve got to start somewhere.”

“I find this _‘we’_ business deeply suspicious,” she couldn’t help pointing out. Somewhere in the last few minutes, he’d clearly decided that they were a team.

He shrugged her concern off, turning his attention to the neatly organized supplies on the other side of his tent. “You can’t deny that it’s a joint venture. We’re both taking risks here.”

They _were_ business partners of a sort, but she couldn’t help feeling that he was benefiting more than her. Her soap would become another tool for him to keep the masses controlled, while all she got in return was just a larger selection of items that were already freely given. However, she couldn’t point that out to him, because she _knew_ how he’d respond—she was free to trade that soap on her own, he wouldn’t interfere. But her cowardice couldn’t be overcome so simply. Maybe if she knew who she was hiding from it would be easier, but until she _did_ know she had to assume that _everyone_ was a potential enemy. Even Mr. Top Dog. Although, she cut him a little slack since he’d had ample opportunity to move against her if he were so inclined.

Emma watched him consider his carefully grouped rations. After some quick calculations he grabbed a number of protein bars, packaged foods, and some thick socks, bundled them into a soft looking button-down and handed the lot over to her. With both hands free, he then selected a large water drum from the back of the tent and turned to face her. “Adequate down payment?”

_Adequate?_ Her mouth had gone dry. Even disregarding the rich cache in her hands, it was absurd. The drum he’d selected had to be in the neighborhood of fifty gallons of water; down here that was a fortune. He may as well have handed her gold bullion. Granted, most of it would go toward making the soap, but it still left her awestruck. Numbly, she nodded.

As they set off together toward her shanty, it struck her how much responsibility he’d handed her and how much trust she’d been afforded because of that. It was a strange feeling. She couldn’t even remember the last person she’d talked to before him, let alone trusted enough to approach. Hell, she’d even shown him part of her darkest secret! That should have sent her reeling in panic, but instead she felt kind of… relieved. Like it was a shared burden now, lighter across two sets of shoulders. Ultimately, she still didn’t know if she could or should put her full faith in him, but it was nice to think that maybe, after all these years, she wasn’t completely alone anymore.

Which meant she had to stop thinking about him as “Mr. Top Dog”, it was a little undignified. She’d held onto it for so long as a way of reinforcing the distance between them, but now that they were working together it felt sort of rude.

She busied herself with setting her new goodies away on her crappy ‘shelves’, watching him from the corner of her eye as he easily set the water drum down by her fire pit. Just as he turned to leave, she blurted, “I’m Emma.”

He paused, still facing away, as he digested that. It was hard to say what he thought about being offered that level of intimacy; his shoulders didn’t stiffen, but he didn’t turn around to look at her either. After what felt like an eternity, he cocked his head and replied, “Bucky.”

And if either of them noticed that they both seemed less than certain on their own names, they graciously ignored it.

* * *

He still wasn’t sure why he’d offered her that name. It was a risk—like everything else with Emma—but in that moment, it had felt right. It was his, after all, so why not use it? Of course, there was a whole line of reasoning in his head that told him exactly why not—it was an old name, not widely used, could _easily_ confirm his whereabouts if she ratted him out—but he had to stop thinking of himself as _The Asset_ or the _Winter Soldier_ if he ever wanted to become more than that. Maybe if somebody else thought of him as Bucky, that’s what he’d be.

Even though she’d offered it first, he’d noticed Emma’s hesitancy over her own name. It was possible she’d fed him an alias, certainly wouldn’t be unusual under the circumstances, but it felt like more than that. She’d sounded the name out slowly, like an unfamiliar taste on her tongue that she desperately wanted to be true.

Exactly the same way that he’d said, “Bucky.”

Which just made the picture he had of her that much more confusing. He’d reevaluated a lot today, expanded his scope of her because it was necessary. She knew about his arm now, had a name to put to his face, which was fair because he had gotten similar information in return, but he wanted more. He wasn’t sure whether to chalk that desire up to simple curiosity or the intermittent years of having highly cultivated intel waiting at his fingertips. If nothing else, it was at least a pressing desire to know whether she was or had been targeted by HYDRA.

Who _was_ Emma? A quiet woman, certainly. Deeply distrustful, which probably meant she’d been betrayed or otherwise wounded by someone she had once set faith in. She might have been a scientist or a doctor—someone educated enough to understand the advanced technology that the government jealously hid away. And despite her standoffish behavior, she was _lonely_ —it was there in the quiet way she had let their simple touch linger, starved for contact—so she had probably been hiding for _years_ rather than months.

Was that enough? If he plugged all those factors into a search engine somewhere, would he come up with any useful answers? Maybe. Maybe not. He wanted to look, but he didn’t want to raise any undue attention. Searching for a way to connect those fancy arm braces to her name might tip off whoever she was hiding from. As much as he wanted answers, he didn’t want to accidentally smoke her out in the process. Especially if HYDRA _was_ involved.

But in the end, he couldn’t resist. He spread the search out over several days and various locations, never staying out of the tunnels for very long. Bouncing from Internet cafes to libraries and other public forums, he gleaned what information he could. It wasn’t much—a couple scientific journals on vibrational frequencies and a bunch of fringe-science articles. Nothing connected to her. Assuming Emma was even part of her real name, her life had been buried a bit deeper than he could chase it. Probably by HYDRA.

It was still an assumption on his part, but the symptoms fit. A young scientist had absconded with groundbreaking technology and there wasn’t a single report about her disappearance? Had to be government related, which meant HYDRA’s fingers were all over it. He was certain she’d be in their paper-trail somewhere. But most of HYDRA’s files were still highly classified and wouldn’t show up on public record because they’d either been squirreled away or destroyed when SHIELD had fallen. A few token records had been floated out to the public, but it was nowhere near the full extent of HYDRA’s activity. Emma’s past could be locked anywhere within that vast matrix, as inaccessible as his own past.

Theoretically, he could take a peek into HYDRA’s files, he remembered enough access codes to buy himself a couple of minutes, but it would send up a bright red flag to his enemies. He didn’t know how long it would take them to swarm the location, but they would; he’d already be long gone by then, but he didn’t want anyone suspecting that he was still in DC. Not to mention that they’d probably redouble their efforts to find Emma, if for no other reason than to ask what interest the Winter Soldier had in her.

And here was a fine example of the double-edged sword that was caring. It made him feel _human_ , like he was healing, but it also limited his options. He couldn’t do as he pleased without putting Emma in the line of fire. He could satisfy his curiosity and then walk away for good, leave DC behind, but she’d be the one to pay the price. And the thought of her, unprotected and in the cold, unfeeling hands of HYDRA enraged him.

So he had to stop looking, because he was in too precarious of a situation and because he cared too much to take that risk. She was new to him, a foreign concept he still wanted to know more about; the thought of losing her to his enemies disturbed him.

Which meant that the only outlet he had left to satisfy his curiosity was to go back to drawing conclusions based on her behavior. Or he could talk to her—he had a feeling that he might have been good at that sort of thing once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter so far! I feel like doing a victory lap. Although it's really chapters five and six that I'm the most proud of, but we'll get there next week.
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who left kudos or bookmarked the story, and an extra big thank you to Ramadiii, BubbleBakerPenguinPie, and jjgoodhope for leaving comments.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The forgotten past slips ever so slightly into focus, leaving Emma shaken.

Emma settled into routine after that: gather wood, build the fire, check the snares, set aside her raw materials. She wasn’t sure how much of anything it would take her to make three dozen bars of soap—measuring wasn’t exactly a priority when she was still learning how best to do this—so she was waiting until she’d filled a large drum with ashes. Part of her worried that she would pick the upper tunnels clean of anything wooden long before she had enough, but the thought barely penetrated her conscious mind. She was preoccupied with other matters.

Something had shifted in Emma’s thoughts after her shared moment with Bucky. She rarely dreamt these days, especially since she barely slept more than a few hours at a time, but as she laid her head down, she couldn’t stop thinking about him; something about that metal arm was eerily familiar…

_Because she’d seen it before, glimpsed briefly through the thick Plexiglas of a hyper-modern cryotube. Her eyes had taken in the marvel, glancing over the sleeping man. She didn’t know who he was and had a pretty deep suspicion that she’d never see him again, because this was the sort of room that someone was led into for an execution. Thick, bank vault walls, lined with innumerable safety deposit boxes, only instead of an appraiser’s table there was a monstrous contraption bolted to the floor—like a medieval torture chair had made freaky love to a gyroscope and a Tesla coil._

_She still couldn’t figure out what had happened. She’d done the research, assessed the practical applications, made several suggestions, and waited for the review board. Only the board had had very different ideas and she’d been pressured to follow their vision. The result had left her so nauseated that she felt it was her duty to raise ethical concerns. She’d submitted her report through the proper channels, but instead of a formal hearing she’d been dragged out of her apartment in the middle of the night. Brought to this place, kicking and screaming._

_“It’s gonna be fine, Doc,” someone told her patronizingly as she was bodily forced into the chair. “In a couple of minutes, you won’t even remember what you were so scared about to begin with.”_

_She kept her eyes locked on the frozen man, on his incongruous metal arm, as several thick cuffs closed to bind her to the chair. Her last thought before a bite guard was jammed into her mouth was that she wished she could get a closer look at that technical masterpiece._

_A faint whirring sounded, a tinny electrical whine, and then there was pain. Sharp, stabbing agony ripped through her brain, radiated down and out until she felt like her insides would be burned to ash. Muscles involuntarily bunched and seized, jerking spasmodically against her restraints. Distantly she heard herself screaming, heard the tortured wail that bled from her lips, but she couldn’t stop it. Someone redirected the pain, localized it to the frontal lobe where it seared and ripped her delicate grey matter._

_And then, as soon as it had begun, there was nothing. Not the peaceful release of unconsciousness or the sweet oblivion of death, but the abrupt termination of electricity. The power had failed—as she slipped into exhaustion she thanked the city’s outdated power-grid for cutting her a break._

_And yet, even in that calming darkness, someone continued to scream._

“Emma!”

She jerked awake, woozy and disoriented, her mouth snapping shut around a prolonged shriek. After several confusing moments her eyes focused, ditching her nightmare in favor of reality. She was home, in her little shanty. Safe.

But not alone.

Bucky must have heard her screams—although god knows why he’d been anywhere near her tunnel—and come in to see if she was all right. He’d wrapped himself around her, seating them upright as he very carefully used his body to restrain her. His ankles had pinned her at the shins, metal arm looping around her to hold her arms against her sides, while his free hand gently cradled her head to his shoulder. She tried to shake his grip but, even for all his gentleness, she might as well have not moved at all; he didn’t budge.

“Breathe,” he instructed.

So she did. Took in long, desperate gulps of air to soothe her burning throat, greedily hyperventilated as she fought her panicked lungs. She focused on Bucky, on his deep, even draws, the way his chest moved rhythmically with each inhale and exhale, pressed lightly but firmly against her back. It gave her an anchor, something to hold on to, something to mimic until her adrenaline plateaued. Eventually, the choking constriction on her airways eased.

As her heartbeat slowed down Bucky shifted, readjusted his legs to bracket her own rather than pin them down, and freed her arms before resuming his light hold on her waist. He didn’t let her head go though, probably knew she was too tired to lift it anyhow.

After several quiet minutes passed, he finally asked, “Are you all right?”

Emma was exhausted. Every muscle ached, as though she’d run a marathon and then been viciously whipped. Her head was exploding and she didn’t think she had the will to move. However, he didn’t need to know any of that, so she replied with an obvious lie. “I’m fine.”

“I know screams, Emma,” he told her, unimpressed. “I’ve heard enough of them in my life to understand that they change based on the circumstances.”

That was a really weird statement and she wasn’t sure how to respond to it, so she tried shrugging him off again, “It was just a nightmare.”

He shook his head, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into her hip and behind her ear. “That was a torture scream,” he refuted knowingly. His voice was low and measured, not with the blank monotone of before but with a gentle sort of grief. “Who hurt you?”

She knew he was a soldier, he’d said so after all, and he seemed to have experience with these sort of post-nightmare situations. And yet, even below all his reassuring gestures and mindful tones, there was a lurking malice, but it was not directed at her. The soldier was looking for someone to fight.

Only, Emma didn’t really know if there _was_ an enemy to fight—her scrambled brain might have just summoned up a bogeyman because Bucky was actively pushing her outside her comfort zone. Some of the details seemed to fit with what she thought had happened in her past, but there was simply no way of knowing for sure. It seemed far more likely that she was just run down and her brain had conjured up all her current stressors in a gruesome little package. Why else would Bucky have featured so prominently in her nightmare?

She ran her hands along the cool surface of his metal arm, cataloguing the unique bumps and grooves the way she’d wanted to earlier. “What are you going to do, Bucky, beat up imaginary people for me?”

He sighed gustily, jostling her a little with the exaggerated movement. “We were finally starting to connect and already you’re shutting me out.”

That took her by surprise. She didn’t _want_ to connect, didn’t want the strain of unknown factors. Part of her had assumed he felt the same. Their dealings were merely a matter of survival. Just business. But now Emma wasn’t so sure. It was a little hard not to cleave to the only person she could ever remember talking to. Beyond their rocky start, he made her feel… not precisely safe, but comfortable. A little more normal. She hadn’t realized that maybe she was giving the same feeling back to him. Underneath his alien exterior, something human in him was trying to reach out to something human in her.

It was confusing, and her headache was preventing her from pondering it overlong. Instead, she simply asked, “What do you want from me?”

“Well,” he drew it out, dropped his hand from her head and rolled his shoulders, “the truth would be nice.”

And Emma was too worn down to resist. Her walls were crumbling around her and there was no time to build them back up, no energy left to do so.“I don’t know if that nightmare was real or not,” she told him, slowly turning her head to meet his eyes. “And it _wasn’t_ torture; it had some purpose beyond inflicting pain.”

The grief in Bucky’s voice was nothing compared to the expression on his face. He looked so angrily helpless, tensed for action with no one to fight. It was strange to think he cared enough to be so affected, but eyes didn’t lie. The shuttering blankness had dropped from his piercing blue gaze, revealing frustration and worry. “I know pain—”

“Like you know screams?” She interrupted him, not sure she was ready to hear where this was going.

_“I know pain, Emma,”_ he repeated, frowning deeply, “and whatever they did to draw that sort of sound out of you was torture.”

Still didn’t really know who ‘they’ were though, or if the nightmare had even been marginally real, so all in all, “That’s not very comforting.”

But he just shrugged and shook his head. “The truth never is.”

The sheer amount of apathy he packed into that single statement was astounding. What horrors had he witnessed during the war to make him so jaded? She could guess, of course; after all, her hands were still running over his _robotic arm_. The death and destruction he’d witnessed probably made her nightmare seem like a day at the fair by comparison. But then, pain was relative.

Their mutual silence drew out, melancholy but comfortable. She let her thoughts drift for a time, to experience instead of analyze. Bucky was generous with his contact, freely allowing her to give and take whatever was necessary to keep herself grounded in the moment. So she curled into him, savoring the warmth of his body, the easy support he offered. She felt human in that moment, tiny and insignificant, but not alone. She’d relied on only herself for so long that this little pocket of peace was almost like a luxury—she felt safe, warm, and protected. She’d never had all three at once since coming down to the tunnels. It was amazing how quickly not being able to trust anyone had made her forget that people were, by nature, pack animals.

But all good moments had to end eventually, and she couldn’t help but wonder why Bucky was still there. The feral part of her figured it had to be because he wanted something. Cynically, she asked, “So is this the part where you ask me to dish up my past for you?”

His response was surprisingly unharried, like he’d been relaxing into their embrace as much as she had. “I can’t say I’m not curious, but you obviously don’t want to talk about it.”

“No more than you want to talk about yours,” Emma replied. Because he clearly hadn’t wanted to the last time they’d chatted; he’d gone stonewall when she’d gotten too close to private information.

But he just smiled. “Would you trade?”

It seemed like he was making a habit out of catching her off guard. What had changed between now and then that he suddenly felt so comfortable opening up? “What?”

“Like earlier,” Bucky waved his free hand, “tit for tat. I tell you something, you tell me something.”

A trade, then; an _even_ trade, which she wasn’t opposed to. But it’s not like that had gotten them very far last time, and she told him so, “Somehow, between the two of us, I don’t think that would be a very long conversation, Bucky.”

He considered that, but seemed determined not to let this moment pass them by. “Then tell me something nonthreatening, something about your life before all of,” he rolled his hand, indicating their general state of rank poverty, “this.”

“I’d rather—,” she began, knowing she didn’t have a firm grasp on the benign details of her life, but he interrupted her.  

“Or you can tell me about the nightmare.”

“Fine,” Emma huffed out with gusto; between those two choices, there was really no contest. She dug back as far as she could, as far as her headache would let her, and pulled something from the gauzy recesses of her memories. “I used to play the piano. I wasn’t great or anything, but my parents got me a pianoforte anyway. Used to practice for hours. I never got any better, really, but my mom still called me her little Mozart.”

He chuckled at that, as if the thought of a younger, more carefree her put him somehow at ease. But the expression slipped away when she prodded him for a tidbit in return. His eyes darted for a moment, trying to recall something, but he seemed to draw a blank. Instead, he turned his prosthetic hand slightly, catching her fingers, and then lifted their arms up into her line of sight. “This was not a voluntary operation,” Bucky told her quietly. “And you were right—they don’t hand these out at the average hospital.”

Her mouth fell open—both in horror that he’d gone through that brutality and the fact that he was suddenly so willing to share it. “That is in _no way_ an equal trade of information,” she replied, mouth dry. “You were supposed to tell me something lighthearted!”

But he just gave her that small twist of his lips and shrugged. “Don’t remember the lighthearted stuff yet.”

“Yet?”

He ignored her question, continuing, “And if you want to know something _really_ important about me, here it is: I’m using these tunnels to hide from the people who did this to me, just like you are.”

“An amnesiac POW on the run from his captors.” Emma was reeling, overloaded with too much sensitive information. “Is that seriously what you are telling me?”

“Feel a little more inclined to share something deeper yet?”

Was that his game? Was his tit for tat just a way to dig up some dirt on her, get her deeper into his pocket? Or was this a genuine show of trust?

“Why would you tell me this?” She asked him, eyes wide as her gaze darted around. “That’s not the sort of thing you should share with strangers.”

“I want to get to _know_ you, Emma,” he said, tilting her head back to meet his gaze again. “It’s only fair that I offer myself in return.” And, _damn him_ , but he looked so sincere when he said that—a far cry from the closed off man she’d first met. “So?”

How could she resist? It _was_ only fair really, since she’d already taken comfort from him, had already heard his secrets. She had to share something of herself. Her throat felt tight again, taking a little extra effort to say, “I’m hiding from my previous employers. They didn’t turn out to be who I thought they were.”

Bucky seemed interested in that, gaze sharp as he searched her face, but he didn’t ask the question that was obviously burning on his tongue. Which was just as well, because she honestly didn’t know who ‘they’ were. Instead, he asked, “How long are you going to keep hiding?”

“Well, I mean,” she floundered a bit, “this is it. This is life now. I’ll stay down here until the day I die, if I have to.” Which was kind of a strange question for him to ask, because he was down in the tunnels with her. How could he not understand that? “Didn’t you say you were hiding too?”

“I am,” he nodded easily, “but it’s not really my style. I’ll leave sooner than later.”

Hearing him say that made the loneliness press in on her, made her heart feel a little sick. Once he was gone, things would go back to normal, back to barely getting by and losing track of time. Funny, how that idea didn’t seem so wonderful anymore. “Where will you go?”

“Hopefully, to a friend.”

“And they can protect you?” He seemed pleased by the concern in her voice, but didn’t comment on it.

“Maybe,” he replied, gaze going distant, “but that’s not why I’d go to him. I’m hoping that he can teach me to protect myself.”

“Must be nice knowing that you’ve got someone waiting for you out there.” Did she have anyone? Parents, siblings, a spouse or significant other desperately waiting to hear news of what had happened to her? She wasn’t sure what instinct guided her, but she had a feeling that the answer was no. That thought had never bothered her before, one less worry on her mind, but now it made her feel like she was insubstantial—a ghost passing by, unnoticed. “Why not go to him now? What are you waiting for?”

Bucky hummed and then asked, “Remember that amnesiac bit? I wasn’t in a good place, mentally, when I came down here.”

“And you’re in a better place now?” Emma wasn’t sure why she asked—he definitely was, even she could see that.

“I’m in a _clearer_ place now. Maybe that’s just as good as better,” he replied. She wasn’t too sure what the distinction was. However, he seemed to be waiting for something specific to happen, so it must not have yet. If he wasn’t pulling her leg about the amnesiac bit, then it probably had something to do with his memories.

Uniquely in a position to understand and reciprocate his desires, she felt a bit bad that she _really did not_. She didn’t want to know, didn’t need to in order to understand that her suffering was justified. She wouldn’t mind remembering the flotsam and jetsam of everyday life though, like what kind of music she’d listened to or if she’d had pets. That sort of thing might have actually been comforting; she missed the tiny details.

“I hate every minute of my life down here,” she told Bucky after a little while. “I feel trapped, but the idea of going back above terrifies me.”

“You want to though, don’t you?” He was surprised by that, as though he’d never considered that her self-enforced exile might have made her simultaneously claustrophobic and agoraphobic.

“God, I want the mundane things so bad!” Emma tilted her head back until it was cradled against his shoulder again. “To sit in a recliner and read the newspaper, bitch about crappy television, listen to the radio, and not have to worry about when or _if_ my next meal is coming around.” She sighed. “It all seemed so boring until I wasn’t allowed to do it anymore; now a dull afternoon sounds like heaven.”

“So what’s keeping you here?”

“They’d find me,” she shuddered. “I can’t be found, I… It would be disastrous. For more than just me.”

Bucky drew her closer, quieting her shivers. “You’re protecting someone?”

“Sort of.” She was protecting _everyone_. The devices she’d swiped were the next line in a brand new breed of WMDs.

He was quiet for a protracted minute, his hands back to making their little circles as he tried to calm her down again. Then, as if he’d reached an inevitable decision, said, “You could come with me, you know.”

She _didn’t_ know. He couldn’t _possibly_ be saying what she thought he was. “What?”

“When I leave,” he clarified, “you could come with.” He actually wanted her to consider it.

She’d never had a man ask her to run away with him before. At least, she didn’t think so. But it wasn’t like they were romantically involved, so what exactly would he get out it if she did? No one could be that protective so quickly. “I don’t understand why you would offer me that,” she remarked honestly. “Wouldn’t I decrease your chances of survival?”

Bucky seemed a little offended that she didn’t think he could keep the both of them alive. “You’d increase the struggle, yes, but you’d also increase the desire to succeed.”

She could see the line of reasoning. There was safety in numbers after all, and fighting alongside someone you cared about tended to make you put in more effort than you might have if you were only struggling alone. But it did beg the question, “Are we friends? Because we’ve only spoken like three or four time; it seems a bit premature.”

Oddly, he _wasn’t_ offended at that, merely asked, “Would you come with me?”

“I… No,” Emma shook her head. The thought of sunshine and hot food was tempting, but there was safety in the tunnels and she refused to sacrifice that. “No, I can’t leave.”

“Then we’re not there yet, are we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Bucky, always fighting the uphill battle.
> 
> Thank you's all around to everyone who bookmarked or left a kudos, and an extra big thank you to BubbleBakerPenguinPie, jjgoodhope, and Liz for commenting!


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky catches a glimpse of a world thought lost to him with surprising results. Emma is dumbfounded.

Emma eventually fell asleep against Bucky—god, it was still so _foreign_ to think of himself as that man from the Smithsonian display—and he greedily allowed it, taking comfort. His skin was crawling from the amount of information he’d shared about himself. It felt so basely unnatural to reveal his secrets; he’d all but shouted, _“I’m a brainwashed assassin on the run from HYDRA!”_ at her. The more information he fed her, the more of a liability she would become. Already, she knew far too much, but… His over-sharing had gotten her to open up in return.

She hadn’t told him a lot, but it was enough. If he’d had any lingering doubts over whether it was HYDRA haunting her steps, the information she’d skirted around had erased them. There were neat little holes in Emma’s tidbits, not enough to be suspicious to the average person, but enough to make Bucky wonder: had she been mind wiped too? She seemed to have a better grasp on her past than he did his own, but he couldn’t ignore that the details fit. Because she had freely admitted that she didn’t know if the events of her nightmare had actually taken place, and she didn’t seem to have a name to put to these former employers she feared so deeply.

It put a lot of her behavior into perspective. She didn’t know who she was hiding from, so everyone became her enemy; she secluded herself away from the rest of the world in order to minimize potential discovery. Her stubborn refusal at his attempts to drag her out wasn’t driven by wounded pride but, rather, bone deep panic. Without the anchor of knowing that Steve Rogers was out there somewhere, waiting for him, Bucky had to figure his behavior probably would have looked remarkably similar to hers. But she didn’t have that hope to hold onto, had resigned herself to this sub-human existence, adapted every way she could before he’d come along and started ripping apart her carefully constructed walls. He’d been pushing her in the wrong direction, challenging the instincts that had kept her alive and hidden until her subconscious mind had felt the need to remind her _exactly_ why she was living underground.

She’d been tortured. Emma’s scream had been rife with agony, a pain so absolute that death would have been welcomed. He knew the sound well, had made it enough himself, and he knew the sort of methods that HYDRA employed to produce that scream from its victims. Either she had already stolen those arm braces and they’d been interrogating her, or she’d been a loose-end they were preparing to tie up. How she’d escaped them was a mystery, but he thanked whatever clusterfuck of events had provided her the cover she had needed.

The thought that she could have been captured or murdered before he’d ever had the opportunity to meet her shook Bucky to his core. There was no getting around the fact that his clearer state of mind was a direct result of studying her. Her struggles made him feel _human_ , made him feel _invested_ , and he had no idea what might have happened if she hadn’t been down here to catch his interest. Down underground, she was his sole connection to the world outside of HYDRA—the idea that she was caught up in the very thing he was trying to escape caused some panic.

They would have to leave the tunnels. There were too many entrances for it to be fully defensible; great place to hide and escape, but not so great to maintain position. If HYDRA looked for them down here, they could easily get separated and caught in a dead-end or led into a trap. The odds were overwhelmingly against them if they stayed, and Bucky knew that he couldn’t live solely on the hope that no one would bother to look here. HYDRA would find them eventually. So they would have to go, because a moving target was harder to lock onto.

Emma would take a lot of convincing. Her gut reaction to the idea of returning above had been panic and sharp denial. She had seemed charmed by the idea of friendship though, and she had definitely admitted to missing aspects of normal life. He could use those as his ins, break down her fear over time and coax her to leave with him. The slow approach would be difficult since there was no way of knowing how close HYDRA was to discovering them but, short of outright kidnapping her, he didn’t have a choice. Then again, if he had to force her along, that’s what he would do. Her safety was becoming a paramount concern to him, and the idea of leaving her behind was simply unacceptable.

It would be easier if she wanted to go though, if she was prepared to fight for some semblance of a normal life. With enough time, he was pretty sure he could give her that lazy afternoon she craved, but they both had to be ready to go through hell to earn the right. All he could do in the meantime was find the smaller things that might help ground her. Like touch.

The first time they had touched, Bucky had been somewhat ambivalent, if a bit quietly amazed at her inherent gentleness. She had been kind and thoughtful, and hadn’t pushed for more than a quick study of his cybernetic arm. It had made him uncomfortable to have her focus there, but her light and graceful fingers had put him at ease. A far cry from the brutal fighting he was used to.

This time he had initiated contact, because Emma had been screaming and thrashing, and he didn’t want her to hurt herself so he’d wrapped his body around her. He’d wanted to fight that battle with her, _for her_ , but in that moment he’d understood that the only thing he could do to help was to provide a touchstone—a place for her to come back to where she was safe. And then, even after he’d helped her through the panicked aftermath of her nightmare, he hadn’t let go; she’d needed the closeness and he’d needed to give it to her, to know that she was supported, protected.

Not so long ago, he’d thought that having access to fire was the best way to keep up her morale—he’d wanted her to bask in the heat and allow herself the freedom to hope for better things—now he knew he was mistaken. Touch was a simple and effective way to bolster both their spirits; it forged a connection that went beyond physical contact, strangely intimate for its platonic nature. They were both starved for that soft reassurance that they weren’t alone, that the world was made up of more than just blood and filth.

Bucky watched Emma as she slept against him, so small and trusting, and allowed himself to enjoy their shared body heat. It was peaceful. He hadn’t known fulfillment like this since…

_Since he was a stupid kid, snuggled up into his friend’s side, fightin' down the shivers as they laughed together._

_They’d been out at the park, tryin' to ice skate around the dinky little pond. But they were just city boys at heart, how were they supposed to know that the ice wasn’t thick enough?_

_They’d learned real fuckin’ quick though._

_One minute, the ice had been solid, the next there had been a jagged hole where his friend had been standin'. Bucky didn’t even stop to think about the consequences, just stomped around to make the hole bigger and then dove right in—’cause his friend couldn’t swim, had about a thousand different medical issues that made this that much more desperate of a situation. But Bucky was quick, had them both layin' out on the opposite bank before very long._

_“My hero,” the stupid punk he’d just saved was laughin'._

_“I swear to god, Steve, you’re gonna be the death of me some day.”_

Emma shifted against him. She hummed sleepily in question and it was then that Bucky realized a low pitched whine had been building up in his throat. He stopped immediately, pulled her closer and took a minute to catch his breath.

“It’s nothing,” he told her. “Go back to sleep.”

But it _was_ something, _something huge_. A _monumental_ step in the right direction.

* * *

Emma wasn’t sure how to feel about waking up in a man’s arms. It was a novel experience.

The tunnels were far enough underground to protect them from the real brunt of the winter temperatures, but it still got cold enough to be dangerous. She’d been nesting in a mess of blankets and clothing, swaddling herself as tight as possible, and still waking with the shivers. Now, though, she came awake slowly, wrapped in a comfortable heat and the gentle rhythm of shared breath.

Sometime after she’d dropped off, Bucky had laid down, letting her sprawl out on top of him. Her head was burrowed up under his chin, pillowing against his collarbones, while her hands were gripped tightly into the sides of his shirt and her legs were tangled with his. Emma wasn’t exactly sure why the position was so comfortable, but there was no denying that she was enjoying it. The idea that someone had been _right there_ while she was unconscious set her teeth on edge, but she felt more rested now than she had in months. Part of her had to admit it was because she trusted Bucky. Maybe not in the long-term, but she trusted him in that moment—trusted him not to hurt her or take advantage.

He was still an unknown factor, a pair of eyes she didn’t want focused in her direction, but pieces of her had softened toward him, either because he wouldn’t leave her alone or because of what he’d shared with her. His past was murky and he’d suffered through a lot; a fancy prosthetic arm didn’t make up for the fact that the original one had been _taken from him_. He was so strong in her eyes that it was hard to imagine how he’d been brought low. When he’d first entered her life, Bucky had been dead inside, shut off and incapable of being fully human—he’d known it, too, because that was the very reason he hadn’t gone to meet his friend. He’d made leaps since then—each conversation they shared was colored with more and more personality—it was only a matter of time before he deemed himself well enough to leave.

In the back of her mind, Emma had always known that he _would_ go—he wasn’t the usual sort that came down to the tunnels—but that thought no longer comforted her. Against her will, she’d come to view him as part of her landscape; without him, life would seem a little starker, a little more unforgiving. She would probably be safer in the long run, but she’d never be this at ease again. Unless she went with him. She still couldn’t believe that he’d offered to take her along, it just seemed like a terrible idea all the way around, but _god_ was it tempting.

But she couldn’t leave—she knew that deep in her gut—and he wouldn’t stay. It would be smarter to minimize contact now, to stop herself from growing more accustomed to him, but she knew somehow that she wouldn’t manage it. Bucky was a force to be reckoned with and he craved contact; she had a feeling he intended to stay close until the day he left. So she could see the fallout coming from a mile off, but didn’t know how to stop it. And if he was a quantity with a known expiration date, was it foolhardy to partake? Would she be able to look back on these memories and find comfort, or would they simply remind her of all the things she didn’t have?

His easy hold around her hips tightened. “I can practically hear you thinking.”

Emma wondered how long ago he’d woken up, or if he’d even slept at all. It was a little disconcerting to think he might have been awake this whole time. “Just wondering why you’re still here.”

“Aw, that’s cute,” he purred, looking down at her, “you’re a terrible liar. It’s probably a hard skill to maintain after you give up on talkin’ to people.”

Her mouth fell open, shocked. This was not the grim man she’d met, or the slightly more open one she’d talked to earlier. He was someone else entirely. The very cadence of his voice had _changed_ , a hint of a familiar accent coming through. She tried to work over what had happened last night to inspire this new behavior, but came up with a blank. Unsettled, she tried to joke, “Dear god, he has a personality!”

“ _Nice._  Mock the recovering amnesiac.” He grinned, actually _grinned_ —not one of those stiff twists that barely reached his eyes—and threw his arms open wide. “No, go ahead; gimme your best shot.”

Her hands came up to his shoulders to steady herself. Then she narrowed her eyes and thumped his arm, asking, “Are you trying to guilt me?”

“It’s called teasing,” Bucky replied, cocking his head. “You might have recognized it if you hadn’t cut yourself off from all human contact.”

Emma frowned at him, saying, “I’m actually kind of offended that you’re suddenly so personable.” Which was only slightly true. She was more offended the she was enjoying their banter.

His easy grin turned wicked and he winked at her. “It does reflect rather poorly on you, doesn’t it?”

She felt her mouth going dry because, god, this was insidious. Before he had seemed like a necessary hardship to be endured, now he was being _playful_ and it was really hard not to respond. She had a feeling that they could get into massive trouble together and have a lot of fun doing it. It was cruel, really, because she’d definitely miss this side of him when he was gone. “Are you even the same person?”

He considered that for a second, then shrugged and shook his head. “Nope.”

“I have no response to that,” she declared.

That amused him, earning a chuckle. “Bucky: one. Emma: zip.”

Oh, this was _dangerous_. He was nice, charming even, on top of already being a good source of supplies and a decent, if somewhat pushy, confidant. She wasn’t just going to miss him when he was gone, she was going to _mourn_ it. And that frightened her—she wanted not to care, wanted the distance back between them. Better not to know what you were missing than to taste a fleeting delight.

Her humor slipped and she tried rolling off of him, but his arms had already gone back to encircling her hips. He didn’t seem overly inclined to move, so she snapped, “Get off of me.”

“Spatial awareness problem,” he told her lightly, good mood still in full effect, “ _you’re_ on _me_.”

However, this time when she rolled Bucky let her go, but quickly slipped an arm under her, catching her up against his side. It was a fluid movement, came easy, like it was second nature to him. Emma couldn’t think of a single context for this sort of intimacy outside of romance—he’d held his lovers like this often enough to be completely at ease with the position. Did it mean anything that he held her like this, or was it simply the only way he knew how to treat women? Although the better question was probably why he was even still touching her at all. She would not have guessed this sort of clinginess in the character she’d dubbed Mr. Top Dog, especially not combined with his newly carefree attitude. So she asked, “Are you flirting with me?” because, against all odds, he was somehow _harder_ to read this way.

But he just laughed at the question and let her go. “Your social ineptitude is really gonna to put a strain on our friendship, Emma.”

“I thought we agreed that we weren’t friends,” she replied, sitting up. Immediately, she missed the heat of his body, and it took a lot more effort than it should have not to lay right back down.

Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice her struggle. “Survival buddies, then,” he substituted with a shrug.

“I don’t actually think that’s better.”

He laughed again, then gave her a playful frown. “You are just _full_ of it today.”

Emma honestly couldn’t believe her ears. “ _I’m_ full of it? What the _hell’s_ gotten into _you_?” He wasn’t even remotely the same person today, all warmth and cheerful camaraderie. His personality had done a complete one-eighty, and he was accusing _her_ of being strange?

He looked a little offended by that. “What, I’m not allowed to be happy?”

“You never have been before,” she felt obligated to point out. People underground generally weren’t. Although there were sometimes fleeting moments of friendship, most of them were inclined to focus inward—to dark places of, _“Why?”_ and _“How?”_ where they were forced to remember life before and after the tunnels. Those kind of thoughts tended to be a mood killer.

Bucky was utterly unaffected. “Then I’m overdue, aren’t I?”

“I don’t think I like this version of you.” She was quickly learning that a happy Bucky could be likened to a hurricane—absolutely devastating. With his warm smiles, straightforward touches, and bright attitude he was stripping her defenses apart, brick by brick. He was likable, persuasive, and so damn easy to talk to like this that she kept having to remind herself not to get involved. She hadn’t realized how deeply she’d missed this sort of interaction, and was starting to resent that he was pointing it out to her because he would take all this verbal sparring with him when he left.

“Oh yeah,” he drawled sarcastically, “I can see how my affability would be offensive.”

“Stop talking to me,” she snapped, finally standing up to put some physical distance between them. This moment was strangely intimate and the longer it dragged on the more it raised her hackles. Mostly because she really wanted the freedom to enjoy it, but the tight pressure around her arms reminded her why she couldn’t.

“Why?” He laughed. Bucky’s cheerfulness never once slipped in the face of her vacillating mood. If anything, he seemed keenly aware of when she was trying to pull away from him and was determined not to let her do it. It might have been cruel if it hadn’t been coming from a place that genuinely seemed to want companionship. “Are you very busy today, Emma? Got a full roster of illicit activities?”

She made a show of checking her raw materials. “I am still making your stupid soap, you know.”

He sat up, cocked his head, and raised a brow at her. “And soap making puts some sort of moratorium on keeping company?”

Emma’s temper finally burst. “Hey, man, you want to take in the delightful aroma of lye and rat fat then be my guest!”

Bucky’s grin turned devilish, eyes shining in triumph.

“ _Shit, no!_ ” She pulled a metal bowl off the shelf and lobbed it at his head. “I meant get out!”

But the bastard just caught the bowl and set it carefully to the side. “No take backs, sweetheart,” he purred. “You’re stuck with me.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” She asked him desperately. She needed distance. _Now._ They had never interacted for so long before. Between his newly discovered charm and the quiet confessions they’d made the previous night, she was becoming overwhelmed. There was a vulnerability lurking within her and the more she’d tried to hide it, the more he seemed determined to reveal it. “I’m sure there are dozens of people out in the tunnels that would probably welcome your company. Go harass them.”

“No dice. You’re the only one I like.”

“I don’t know whether to be flattered or horrified,” she mumbled.

“Admit it, you like me,” he needled, rising so that he could stand just behind her.

“I am growing _accustomed_ to you,” Emma complained, pushing him out of her way so that she could get the fire started, “and I _resent_ that fact.”

“Ouch,” he mockingly raised his hands to his heart, as though she’d shot him, “you really don’t pull your punches. Why do you resent it?”

She tried so hard not to answer, but the words fell from her lips, “Because you’re leaving! It’s just cruel to get me used to you when you don’t intend to stick around.”

Bucky followed her to the fire pit, helping her pile in wood and tinder as he considered her words. After a while, he simply said, “Then come with me.”

She still couldn’t believe that he’d offered it the first time, and now he was asking again? Some part of her had hoped that he had only extended the invitation in the heat of the moment, but it seemed he genuinely wanted her to come along. And as tempting as that offer was, they both knew she couldn’t. There was no point rehashing the conversation. “We already talked about this.”

“Yeah,” he replied easily, “but I’m gonna keep askin’. Maybe one day you’ll surprise me.”

“Insufferable.”

“You like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, so typically I am not a huge fan of writing dialects, since my own accent is quite the mishmash, but Bucky kind of needed it. Having lived in the Hudson Valley for most of my teen years, I'm trying to draw from experience, but the Brooklyn accent is a creature unto itself. I cannot phonetically type out a New York accent, because it'd be like writing half the dialogue in code, so let's just assume: his vowels have rounded out, words of four letters or less tend to mash into each other, h's sometimes wander away, his d's and t's make a habit of swapping around, and any given g at the end of an 'ing' word has dropped off the face of the planet. This has been your crash course to a general North Eastern accent.
> 
> As always, big thank you to everyone who left a kudos or bookmarked, and an even bigger thank you to BubbleBakerPenguinPie, jjgoodhope, and Meg for leaving comments!


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky experiences what can best be described as a mental stutter and, however unlikely he would have considered her involvement, Emma's there to rescue him.
> 
> See end of chapter for light warnings.

Bucky couldn’t help but feel lighter as he walked back to his tent. After his little glimpse of a memory, talking hadn’t seemed so difficult anymore. His thoughts had come easily, practically rolling off his tongue, and while he hadn’t always felt comfortable with the direction he’d steered the conversation, he had trusted his new instincts. Turned out he’d been right: before HYDRA, he’d been _very_ good at talking.

Emma was utterly taken aback. The change in him made her confused and snappish, but at times she had joined in his good humor, forgotten her hesitations and shared a few fleeting moments of genuine connection. She caught herself every time and tried to pull away, but he always guided her back—the idea of friendship was new and foreign, and he wasn’t about to let stubbornness stand in the way of something that they both coveted. So he chatted, caught her off guard, made her smile and laugh despite her attempts not to. As they’d puttered around her shanty making soap and sharing little moments, he’d felt like they’d forged a sort of kinship. They worked well together, with an effortless sort of give and take that allowed them to remain constant equals. So he kept pushing her toward the inevitable, hoping that the idea of losing their growing friendship would be enough to lure her out of the tunnels.

There was a fragility in Emma; he sensed it as keenly as she did. A large part of her survival skills banked on her being numb enough not to care about anything; it was why she both resented and enjoyed his presence so deeply. He made her feel, just as she made him feel, but while he craved the sensation, she feared it. Feared she wouldn’t be able to resume her life after he’d gone, that every moment underground would become a torturous reminder of what she could have had if she’d been brave enough to leave. His mission now was to make sure she found that bravery.

His Mission…

Bucky stepped into his tent—cold and dark and meticulously organized—his thoughts suddenly spinning out of control.

His Mission… kill Steve Rogers. AKA—

— _The Star Spangled Man With A Plan_ —

—Captain America.

_“Hey, everybody, let’s hear it for Captain America!”_

He shouted, maybe. It was hard to tell with the din in his head, thoughts swirling around a confusing tangle of information. Eventually he fell back onto the crash cot, legs giving out as all his energy became focused inward. There were voices from the past echoing through his mind—doctors and scientists, the voices of HYDRA yelling at him in languages he didn’t know but somehow still understood.

“Your target is a UN delegate—”

“—Founder and CEO of—”

“—daughter of—”

“—terminate with extreme prejudice—”

“—sniper mission; we’d like you to stay hidden, after all—”

“—don’t bother making it look like an accident—”

“—our enemies need to know—”

“—people will start to understand—”

“—you’ll have ten hours before the task force is sent to retrieve you—”

“—two days—”

“—then you can go back to sleep—”

“—back on ice—”

“—your work is almost done—”

“—force for peace—”

“—an asset for good—”

“—ultimate soldier—”

“—Winter Soldier—”

“Bucky!”

He blinked and jerked back to the present, throat working convulsively as he tried not to violently retch. The ghosts of HYDRA quieted, thoughts clearing as he latched on to the last voice he’d heard.

“Bucky, you need to stop or you’re going to hurt yourself. Please relax. It’s over. Whatever it was, it is over now.” Yeah, that voice. Husky and concerned, and maybe a little frightened, but mostly _for_ him rather than _of_ him. And she was lovely, the owner of that voice—pale eyed, pale skinned, dark haired—and he liked her; he knew that with conviction. He liked her, so he trusted her, trusted the orders she gave him and did his best to obey.

“Bucky, _please!_ You’re already bleeding.” Her hand caught up his, and it was then that he realized he’d been clawing at the rough seam where flesh and metal joined. “You don’t want me to stitch you up, trust me. I’m no good with sutures.” She wanted him to move, so he let her guide him, let her sit close and settle his head in her lap as she clasped his hand in her own—cold and shaking—and tentatively ran her fingers through his hair.

It took Bucky a long time to reorient himself, to stop living from second to second, to draw back from the blankness that had threatened him and allow his natural thoughts to reassert themselves. Emma sat with him while he struggled, and while she didn’t say much her words were always encouraging. Her fingers kept up a gentle rhythm around his face and through his hair, her other hand still tightly gripping his own as though she feared he’d start trying to pry his metal arm off again. Not that he blamed her, he couldn’t imagine what he’d looked like in that moment, had to appreciate the strength it must have taken for her to approach him while he was so out of control.

Eventually his breathing returned to normal, tense muscles relaxing as he remembered that he was free. He was free and down in the tunnels with Emma, and one day very soon they’d both be ready to leave, to find Steve Rogers and face HYDRA head on. There was an end in sight, a plan in progress. Stick to the plan and heal.

She felt him slowly ease out of the panic that had gripped him, though if she guessed at his thoughts she didn’t show it. Instead, after several long minutes she asked, “Are you going to vomit?”

Bucky considered the question. His jaw was still clenched punishingly tight, but he didn’t feel like his insides were fighting to become his outsides anymore. It took a moment to unlock his jaw, but he finally answered, “No.”

Emma nodded and withdrew her hands. “Then we need to get that shoulder taken care of.”

He missed her instantly, wanted that grounding presence wrapped around him again. Besides, a quick glance confirmed that his shoulder wasn’t even bleeding anymore, so what did it really matter? “It’s fine,” he told her, reaching out to catch her hands back up.

But she just pushed him away and snarled, “Now is not the time to trot out that macho-guy bullshit.” She wandered over to his supplies and started rooting around. “Do you have a first aid kit?”

“Ah, it’s… somewhere,” he said helplessly. His thoughts were still muddled and she was much too far away.

Emma huffed angrily and continued her search, knocking things over and making a general mess as she went. When she finally found an emergency kit in the back corner, she turned around and told him, “You scared the crap out of me.”

That much was clear. Her mouth was pinched tight, eyes wild, and there was an air of brittle anger surrounding her. She was deeply concerned and pissed about that fact, but couldn’t stop herself from trying to help. If he hadn’t felt so utterly beaten up, he might have celebrated that their time together was clearly having an effect on her. Instead, he just teased, “I’m surprised you care.”

“Don’t be a jackass,” she snapped, looking like she wanted to brain him with the sturdy metal box she was carrying, “I’m trying to be nice over here.”

“This is you being nice?” Bucky laughed.

She shot him another dark look as she sat down to his left. For a few heartbeats she simply studied the damage he’d done. It wasn’t too bad, not as bad as it could have been anyway. He’d ripped his shirt sleeve off to get at the flesh, and there were streaks of dried blood crusted around some mean looking welts. Didn’t need stitches, probably wouldn’t even scar, but she looked at his wounds like they made her want to cry. Or hit him—her concern was definitely on the gruff side. But she dropped the look quickly, opened the medical box and began taking out anti-sceptic and bandages.

Emma worked slowly, methodically, cleaning and soothing in little quadrants. She was psyching herself up as she went, worry making her bristle until, as inevitable as the sunrise, she asked, “Was that a war flashback or something else?”

He sighed, unsure how to explain away decades of HYDRA reprogramming. “It was a misstep.”

“I don’t understand you,” she declared hotly, unraveling a a neat roll of bandages. “A misstep, he says, as though I didn’t just spend the past two hours trying to snap you out of it.” Her fingers smoothed a thick paste over his wounds, then she carefully began to cover them with the bandages. “That was definitely a flashback. Do you know what triggered it?”

Bucky shrugged, careful not to jostle her from her work. “A poor choice of words got me… stuck in a train of thought that I shouldn’t have been entertaining.”

“So basically,” she replied, securing the linen scrap with a little rip of medical tape, “you’re telling me that you can’t be left alone.”

“I’m _not_ a _child_ , Emma,” he growled, because her accusation was just offensive. He already felt like he was somehow less in this moment—raw, open, exposed. He didn’t want her to see him like that, didn’t want her quietly watchful gaze zeroed in on his darkest vulnerabilities.

She gave his shoulder a careful pat and calmly asked, “What would have happened if I hadn’t been coincidentally passing by?”

He couldn’t answer that because they both knew he would have ended up hurting himself a lot more. If he hadn’t found her voice to draw him out, Bucky was worried he might have succumbed to the ghosts in his past, might have slid all the way back into the man he’d been before he’d taken residence underground. It was a chilling thought, made him feel angry and helpless. He’d been making so much progress, getting clearer by the day, and then this giant step back. And worse than that, she’d seen it.

Emma reached out to lace their fingers together and hesitantly leaned into his side, quieting his thoughts instantly. “Look, you saw me at my lowest after my nightmare and I’m not embarrassed about that, so there’s no shame in letting me see you now.”

“We playing tit for tat again?”

“Don’t close me out,” she pleaded, hand tightening on him.

The absurdity of those words spilling from her lips when she was the one who so desperately wanted to be left alone was what forced him to respond honestly. “It was a flashback, but not of the war. Not really.”

She curled deeper into his side, raised their joined hands and asked, “Something to do with this?”

Bucky stared at his cybernetic arm, held so gently by her fragile flesh. The two of them had shared a lot of secrets, but he didn’t feel strong enough to invoke HYDRA’s name out loud yet. Didn’t know what it would do to him. Or her, for that matter.

“You don’t want to talk about it.” Emma took his silence in stride, reassuring him, “I understand. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, Bucky.”

His eyes darted to her face. She was open and honest, and though there was curiosity written all over her she clearly didn’t want to push him passed his limits. In her own way, she was very much trying to give him the same protection he wanted for her. She respected his struggle, didn’t judge him for his silences, but also wasn’t about to let him draw away from her. It was such a strange turnaround for them, it almost made him laugh.

There was something precious but achingly breakable building between them, and he felt as though he’d just threatened it. For all her bravery, Emma didn’t have the first clue how dangerous helping him out could have been for her. “I could have hurt you.”

“You only hurt yourself,” she replied. Then as if sensing how exhausted he was, or perhaps remembering how tired her own ordeal had made her, she coaxed him to lie back. After a moment, she rolled into him, settling herself against his side in a perfect imitation of the way he’d held her earlier that day. “Do these happen often?”

Hesitantly, Bucky brought his arm around her, taking comfort in her presence as he contemplated the question. If he counted the memory from last night—and he didn’t like to, because that one had been pleasant and significant—then it pointed to an increasing occurrence. But twice wasn’t exactly a pattern, so he shrugged and said, “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” she reassured him. “You don’t have to know. Mental health is a process, right? Maybe this is just the next big step on your way to maintaining your clearer state of mind.”

Her words were an immediate comfort. He hadn’t thought about it, but there was probably a lot of stuff locked away into his past that wasn’t pretty. Maybe this episode hadn’t been his brain trying to sink back into the mentality HYDRA had created so much as simply him remembering parts of missions they’d wiped from his mind. If he thought about it in that light, it was just further evidence that he was healing.

Feeling lighter, he teased, “Well, aren’t you knowledgeable.”

“I am an expert at taking life as it comes at me.” She threw a leg over his and let her hands burrow into what was left of his shirt. “And none of your sassy remarks about my social life, _thank you!_ I think I deserve that much for how helpful I’m being.” Quieter, hiding her face into his side, she asked, “I _am_ being helpful, right?”

He laughed and drew her closer. “In an abrasive kind of way, but that’s what makes you so charming.”

* * *

Neither of them fell asleep this time—perhaps too aware of themselves and each other to try. Instead, they merely relaxed into the shared embraced, synced their breathing until the moment became almost meditative, devoid of thought but rife with purpose.

Emma felt a little strange for having initiated the contact this time, but she hadn’t been able to stop herself. Bucky had looked so lost, cast adrift without an anchor to protect him from the uncertain tides of his memories. In that moment, she’d seen the aching vulnerability that lurked deep beneath the survivor and the soldier—on a primal level he was terrified to be alone with himself. In the same breath that he’d been trying to push her away, he’d also been reaching out to draw her closer. And when it finally dawned on her that maybe his insistence on barging into her life was coming from a surprisingly emotional desire, she couldn’t help but be humbled. She hadn’t wanted to be chosen, but how could she resist when such a self-contained man wanted to share himself with her?

So she’d laid him back and cuddled up into his side, mimicking that lover’s pose that had made her so wary. He seemed to take strength from it, body easing as the last of his adrenaline high fled him. If she was being honest with herself, Emma was enjoying it too; the easy way they came together was comforting. No awkward glances or selfish gestures, just open and effortless communication. He smoothed careful paths over the plains of her back while she flexed and kneaded her hands into the well-defined muscles of his side and abdomen. They both gave what was needed and didn’t take any more than was being offered.

It was safety, plain and simple, and she wouldn’t allow herself to ruin the moment by dwelling on how it would impact her future. She’d pay her dues eventually but, for his sake, until then she had to give herself the freedom to respond.

Of course, after their reverie drew to a close, she quickly remembered why responding around Bucky was dangerous. He had bounced back with the ease of an emotional acrobat—once more the affable, grinning jerk that made her nervous. And just as she was about to retreat to her shanty, like clockwork he asked her to leave the tunnels with him.

“No.” How much more plainly could she state it before he understood?

But the newly recharged Bucky was clearly in a contentious mood, so he challenged, “Why not?”

“You know why not,” Emma grumbled at him while securing her coat.

“I’m not asking you to elope with me here, sweetheart.,” he laughed, stilling her fingers over the many buttons and zippers. “I just want you to—”

“See everything I’m missing?” She interrupted him, swatting his hands away.

“—find something that you like.” Bucky shook his head and chuckled, “ _Jesus_ , you’re a tough nut.”

She eyed him suspiciously. Was he seriously suggesting that they go on a _shopping trip?_ “So this is the next level of your bribery, then? Let me pick out whatever my greedy heart desires?”

“No, you paranoid little cynic,” he laughed again, reaching out to ruffle her hair. “This is a thank you, hence why I’m not just giving you extra protein bars or a new pair of pants.”

Emma was scandalized. “There is _nothing_ wrong with my pants!”

“For a hobo, no,” he drawled, giving her a slow and sarcastic once over.

All right, so the holey knees were basically held together with faith and good luck, and the lack of access to washing machines made their color suspiciously indeterminate—she thought they still looked pretty good, all things considered. Besides, it was rather worth pointing out, “We are hobos.”

He was dully unimpressed with her reasoning. It made her wonder if he actually did have a home to go back to somewhere. He certainly didn’t seem to think of himself as homeless.

Several minutes ticked by and Emma considered just walking out of his tent to avoid their ongoing argument. Unfortunately, curiosity got the better of her. “What exactly are you thanking me for?”

Bucky grinned and spread his arms wide, drawing attention to his bandaged shoulder. “For gruffly but noticeably pointing out that, no matter how many times you deny it, we _are_ friends.”

“We’re not—”

He raised a hand to his chest and gasped in fake shock, “You would share that level of intimacy with a stranger?”

Despite his childish attitude, she still answered him seriously. “God, no!”

“Well, then,” he drew out dangerously, taking a step closer, “if we aren’t _friends_ , we must be _lovers_.”

Emma’s eyes popped wide. They shared a certain amount of intimacy, true, but it wasn’t overtly sexual. “We haven’t—”

Quick as a flash, he snatched her up, metal arm bracing under her thighs so that he could lift her to his height. With a saucy wink, he teased, “I mean, not yet, but you’ll succumb to my charm eventually.”

Even as she questioned his intentions, she had to laugh at his antics. Her hands came up to his chest to steady herself and she grinned at him. “Insufferable prick.”

“So?” He jiggled her a little, probably just because he could. “What’ll it be?”

Somehow she knew he wasn’t asking about his blatant innuendo. “You’re determined for us to go above?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” he nodded.

Emma eased her knees around his hips, and brought her elbows to rest on his shoulders so that she could smack the back of his head. “Because I just find it kind of weird that in order to express your gratitude, you find it necessary to drag me through my worst nightmare first.”

Bucky set her down but didn’t step away, instead letting her slide down his front until they were toe to toe. It left her a little shaken. True, he’d been casually flirty before, but this was something else entirely and it was hard to pin down _what_ when dealing with an amnesiac. This was a different sort of intimacy and she wasn’t sure if he even realized he was pursuing it.

“Yours is a singular demon, Emma,” he interrupted her thoughts. “How did you ever survive your usual trips South?”

“Herd camouflage,” she shrugged, tempted to step back. “What’s one more vagrant in a crowd of them?”

He condescendingly patted the top of her head. “There are no words for how counter-intuitive your logic is.”

“But if we go above,” she replied, shooing his hand away as she kicked lightly at his toes, “it would _just_ be two of us. We are going to stand out and I don’t want that kind of attention.”

He stepped back then gestured to the disarray of his supplies with an easy grin. “Good thing then that we have every tool at our disposal to ensure we look completely normal.” He fixed her with a serious look, reassuring, “Just two more tourists in a transient city.”

“I don’t—”

“ _Come on_ , Emma,” he pleaded, giving her puppy eyes. “We can be quick. Go up, have a little look around, enjoy the sun for a few minutes, find something you like, and then return. We could be there and back in no time.”

It was tempting. She hadn’t seen the sun since the last time she’d come back from Florida, months and months ago. And the thought of finding a trinket, a littler reminder of better things, softened her a bit. Not quite enough to forget that the idea was stupidly dangerous, but she could see that he wasn’t going to be deterred. “You’re not going to give up until I say yes, are you?”

“There’s not going to be a hit-squad waiting for you the second you step out of the tunnels, all right?” Bucky laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You’re safe with me.”

He did look like he’d be reliable in a fight; all that lean strength had to be good for something, after all. Besides, it wasn’t like he was going to immediately abandon her after working so hard to earn her trust. She could swallow her fears down enough to depend upon him, just this once. It seemed important to him, and if he wasn’t going to stop pestering her about it, it would be better to give in now.

“Fine,” she agreed with a put upon sigh, mostly just for show, “but just a quick trip. Right? You promise?”

“Scout’s honor,” he replied sincerely.

Only clearly, he’d never been a scout—they ended up spending most of the day above ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Light Warnings: PTSD Flashback (already in the tags) and minor, inadvertent self-harm (not in the tags). I apologize for not tagging the self-harm, but this is the only instance of it in the entire story (as it is written so far), and I didn't want that tag informing people about content when it's largely irrelevant to the overall plot.
> 
> So that was a doozy, eh? Let it never be said that Bucky isn't awesome at turning his misfortune into far more positive payoff.
> 
> As ever, thank you to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, and an extra big thank you to BubbleBakerPenguinPie, aorangeinboston, Meg, and jjgoodhope for leaving wonderful comments. (Seriously. You guys got me through writing chapter eleven, which was determined to be difficult.)


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma and Bucky spend the day exploring DC; their adventure goes a little differently than either party expected.

It wasn’t as if Emma had never seen the outside world. She’d lived in it much longer than she hadn’t, but those years before her sacrifice were blurry, and in her years after she had done her best not to take much notice. It was downright impossible not to notice now, though. At Bucky’s side, she took in the world with fresh eyes.

DC was a sprawling, massive city, always buzzing with tourist activity. People came and went at every street corner, looking lost, darting glances at street names, and grumbling to no one in particular. Children flitted away from their parents and teenagers crept off on secluded journeys. It was complete chaos, and not a single glance had darted their way, just as Bucky had promised—two more tourists in a sea of them.

It was that conspicuous lack of searching eyes that allowed Emma to relax, to take in their surroundings. The day was rather dreary in the way that east coast cities always were in the winter—weak sun buffeted by a damp ocean breeze, glinting here and there on the buildings that rose around them. DC, being more of a historical city, didn’t have too many skyscrapers, not the way New York did, and it left the vistas open, welcoming. It was still cold though—a light scrape of ice coated the sidewalks as piles of dirty snow diligently melted along the crossways—colder than the tunnels, to be honest, and it eventually had them scurrying inside to seek shelter.

She was a lot more self-conscious inside. Between her soap and Bucky’s cache of clean clothes, they had done their best to look normal. The harsh lye hadn’t worked so great with hair, so they had both resorted to wearing hats, and Bucky still had that scruffy beard that didn’t look at all civilized. All things considered, they hadn’t done too badly, but it was hard not to be nervous. Inside, there was a higher concentration of focus, it would be easier for others to pick them apart and look for familiar faces.

They’d wandered into some sort of museum—free admission, thank god—and did their best to blend in with the crowd as they warmed up. They walked casually from one display to the next, falling in and out of tour groups, and Emma kept having to remind herself that even though the situation was different this was still basically herd camouflage. The thought didn’t help her fight down her nervousness though, and she eventually found herself slipping her hand into Bucky’s for some reassurance.

He immediately laced their fingers together, stepping a little closer to her side. “You’re doing fine,” he murmured, “just relax.”

His nearness had always made her edgy before, filled her with worries about dependency and absence, but now it was calming. He stood between her and the rest of the world like a shield. She envied that inner strength he possessed, his willingness to enter into the unknown. “That’s easy for you to say.”

“Really?” He deadpanned. “You don’t think I’m scanning the crowds here?” And he absolutely was—assessing gaze efficiently taking in the world around them—the big hypocrite.

Emma rolled her eyes and frowned. “Then why are you telling me to relax? Maybe I’ll spot someone before you do.”

He finally looked down at her, brows raised as he asked, “Do you even know who you’re looking for?”

She bristled, both because he’d guessed at her lack of clarity and because he was implying she wasn’t capable. So, instead of answering she deflected with, “That’s really insulting coming from an amnesiac.”

But somewhere along the line, Bucky had gotten really good at recognizing her bluffs, and he pressed, _“Do you?”_

_“Fine,”_ she groused, because she really didn’t want to get into a fight about it, “I’ll relax.”

“Thank you,” he smiled, hand tightening briefly on her own. “Now let’s go grab a bite to eat.”

Food? Real, _hot_ food? Not dry and crumbling bricks of seeds and oats or tins of over-processed glop, but an _identifiable, edible meal?_ The thought nearly made her moan in ecstasy.

And yet a quiet part of her brain was warning her that they had already spent more time out of the tunnels than Bucky had promised they would. They’d had their look around; now would be the ideal time to return, before anything made too much of an impression. Because the sad truth was that the tunnels were going to seem like a bitter disappointment after feeling the gentle lick of the sunlight. And as edgy as being around this many people made her, she couldn’t say that she wasn’t enjoying herself. The outside world was big and bright and full of life, and the longer they stayed the more she would regret having seen it.

But for food? God, she would fight _armies_ for a decent meal! Remorse could come later—and it would, when she was stuck choking down those awful protein bars just to fight off the hunger again—but for now she was all right with being a little greedy.

That didn’t mean Emma was willing to cause a scene though—dine and dash was out of the question—so she wasn’t sure how they were going to procure anything. “Do you have money? Because I sure don’t.”

Bucky grinned and threw an arm around her shoulders, surreptitiously waving a wallet in her face. “You’re not the only one who knows how to pick a pocket, sweetheart. Food’s on me, courtesy of,” he squinted at the driver’s license, “Darren Oakley.”

Darren Oakley’s loss was _absolutely_ their gain. They made their way out of the museum, careful to ditch the wallet after collecting the tidy stack of paper-money. After looking around a couple of neighborhoods, they ended up at a half-abandoned diner. It wasn’t exactly the toast of the town—the service was taciturn and the food was mediocre at best—but it still felt like heaven.

* * *

 

 

Bucky watched as Emma demolished a combo plate with fervor. It might have been funny to see such a tiny woman go at it, if it hadn’t been a stark reminder that she’d been fighting a precarious battle against the elements much longer than he had. When was the last time she’d tasted _actual_ food? It was just one more normal thing that HYDRA had stolen from the both of them.

He kept himself alert, even as they ate and joked in the seedy little diner, determined not to let anyone get the drop on them. Once or twice, he’d seen a glance shot their way, but there hadn’t been any pattern to the attention. Didn’t mean he stopped looking for it, though. He’d promised Emma that she would be safe with him and he was going to deliver on that, no matter what. He wanted her to trust him, wanted her to remember this moment the next time he asked her to leave the tunnels.

Bucky tried never to dwell on the future outside the context of his plan; it was easier to live day to day and let the future be whatever it would be. Sitting in a booth across from Emma seriously challenged that, though. He could picture them living like this—in nicer places, easier times, sharing a connection that stemmed from more than just survival. It made him wonder where they would be a year from now. If he got her out of the tunnels and they found Steve Rogers together, what would become of _her_ life? The plan had been designed specifically for him, for his own recovery, so where did that leave her? He would protect her from HYDRA of course, but there had to be more that he could do, some way that he could help her heal. Because, as selfish as it sounded, he didn’t want to give any of this up. He wanted her around, wanted to share with her those mundane moments she coveted.

But first he had to get her out of the tunnels. Today was a matter of gaining exposure—she couldn’t fear what she was familiar with. She’d stopped fearing him, after all. So perhaps, if he got her used to the outside world in little bursts of presentation, she eventually wouldn’t be so horrified by the idea of joining it. Today was also a little bit about bribery, despite what he’d said. He did want to express his gratitude—for everything she’d done and had helped him do—and he wanted that gift to come from the above world. Every time she looked at it would be a reminder that the tunnels were limited; that, while the risks of living in the real world were far greater, so were the potential rewards.

They couldn’t continue living underground—if you could even call it living. Emma’s life was stuck in a holding pattern, pinned under a rock by fear of the unknown. She was too busy just trying to survive to have any time to build a future, let alone heal from her own ordeal. Bucky, who’d been under HYDRA’s thumb much longer, was making astronomical progress while she merely maintained course. She clearly needed a different environment, somewhere more secure, and she wouldn’t get that unless they ventured out.

He wasn’t certain where they would go at first; it still felt too soon to seek out Steve Rogers—he wasn’t prepared for that yet. So, safety would still be a prominent concern. Where could they go that HYDRA wouldn’t find them? The question didn’t bother him so much as its implication did: they would just be trading in one hiding place for another. It would be wiser to go on the run, to shuffle randomly from place to place until they had a solid plan, because HYDRA couldn’t find something that didn’t stay put. But he wasn’t sure if Emma was up for that; she’d kept her head buried in the sand for so long that excessive travel might legitimately be outside the realm of her capabilities. In the tunnels she was a strong woman, no question about it, but on the run she could fall apart entirely. Then again, she was highly adaptable—despite her sometimes tense behavior, she’d already taken this sojourn completely in stride.

There were too many variables, and the simple fact of the matter was that Bucky couldn’t know anything for sure until they were there. He would just have to trust that the plan was their best option, their greatest shot at a better future. Stick to the plan and heal.

“You’ve gone quiet,” Emma observed, breaking his train of thought.

He slipped on an easy smile, trying to joke, “You looked like you were havin’ a pretty intense moment with your pancakes there; I didn’t want to intrude.”

“And you called me a terrible liar,” she tsked loudly, mopping up a stray bit of syrup with some bacon that she’d snuck off his plate. “For _shame_ , Mr. Top Dog.”

Bucky was about to retaliate by stealing something off her plate when he got caught on what she’d called him. “What?”

“I, uh…” Emma turned bright red, all the way over her collar and to the tips of her ears. She got very flustered for a couple of seconds and then blurted out, “Before we actually introduced ourselves, that’s what I was calling you.” She gestured helplessly. “In my head.”

Her embarrassment was phenomenal, absolutely endearing, and he wanted to bask in it. He knew she would get snappish and defensive if he dragged the moment on though, and it wasn’t like he’d had an accurate first impression of her, either. So he bailed her out a little, admitting, “If it makes you feel any better, I honestly thought you were a teenage boy the first time I noticed you.”

Her mouth fell open, scandalized. “Not… not _really.”_

“Aw, did I wound your feminine pride? Because, _believe_ me,” Bucky purred, eying her seductively, “I am absolutely _not_ operatin’ under that assumption anymore.”

“Don’t be a letch,” she snapped, but there was no heat in it. Under her gruff words, the woman was both amused and intrigued.

Emma had initially been a creature purely of emotional value in his eyes, but the growing physicality between them made it hard not notice the rest of her. He’d assessed her in abstract ways before; however, as they’d pressed together for comfort, his thoughts had changed. She was beautiful, he’d never lied to himself about that, but he had started to ponder it; it was sort of hard not to when her soft hips and breasts had been pressed into his side. They shared a profound and growing connection, and it was difficult not to want to explore how deep that connection could go. But their easy communication was based on give and take, and he didn’t want to pressure Emma for more than she was ready to give. She _was_ interested though, that much was clear, but the woman went to great lengths to hold herself aloof.

Still, he couldn’t help pointing out, “Strange coincidence that you didn’t enjoy my company _until_ I started being a letch.”

“Your charm is only going to take you so far, Bucky,” she warned him, the high apples of her cheeks still prettily flushed. “Eventually, I will feel compelled to punch you.”

“You’re so _violent,”_ he complained while fighting down a laugh. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or concerned for my safety.”

Emma let out a very put upon sigh and tried to give him puppy eyes. “You make it so much more difficult for me when you flirt.”

“How’s that?”

She considered the question, becoming more serious when she answered, “Because half the time, I don’t think you even realize you _are_ flirting, and I don’t want to misinterpret anything or end up feeling awful that I took advantage of a confused amnesiac.”

“Oh, _Emma_ , sweetheart,” Bucky groaned. “Take _every_ advantage you can get.” He’d been rolling with the punches a lot lately and, in fairness to her, his flirting wasn’t always serious. But, _damn,_ the thought of her flirting back made him _hungry._

She gave a small laugh and dryly replied, “I realized, even as the words left my mouth, that you weren’t going to see my dilemma as any sort of problem.”

“So we’ve got a chance, is what you’re sayin’,” he said smoothly, waggling his eyebrows at her.

Emma turned back to her pancakes, grumbling, “I set myself up for this.”

“Well?”

“It’s a little mean that you won’t let a lady gracefully back out of the conversation,” she told him snidely.

“Come on, doll,” he begged, reaching across the table to still her hands, “give a guy some hope.”

His serious tone had her looking back up. Her pale eyes searched his face, although what she was looking for he couldn’t say. If she found whatever it was, she didn’t react, instead replying, “I’m not saying no, but I’m also not saying yes.”

“What’s the hold up?”

“What’s the rush?”

Stalemate. But that was okay, because stalemates didn’t last forever. The more they got to know each other, the better their chances were. It did make him nervous though. She definitely responded around him but what if, ultimately, he just wasn’t her type. Then again, after all their respective social reprogramming, did either of them even have types anymore? She liked him, that was the important part. Right?

Suddenly a little panicked, he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “You do _like_ me though, don’t you?”

She looked up again, frowning at him. “That sounded surprisingly insecure.”

“In the interest of whatever our relationship is, I’m tryin’ to be honest over here,” Bucky shrugged, hands nervously fiddling with his utensils. “You could return the courtesy.”

“I do like you,” Emma reassured him gently, but then looked away. “I just don’t see the point in inviting heartache. Say I flirted back and this— _fine,_ I admit it—friendship between us grew into something deeper; where does that leave me when everything is said and done?”

“With a lover?”

She gave a humorless laugh at that, reminding him, “You’re leaving, Bucky, and I would prefer not to be wearing a broken heart on my sleeve when you go. I’m already going to miss you a lot more than I should have. And _don’t,”_ she winced, knowing what he was about to say. “Don’t ask me.”

He reached out, carefully cupping her jaw to draw her gaze back to his own. Once he had her full attention, he firmly replied, “All you have to do is say the word, sweetheart. No one’s making us go our separate ways but you.”

She burrowed into his light touch, but sighed, “I don’t think either of us are really in a position to make that kind of commitment.”

“And you never will be if you stay put,” he couldn’t help pointing out. “You know that.”

She drew back, despondent now in the face of her earlier good humor. “I don’t want to argue, Bucky.”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” he rubbed a hand over his eyes. “But you can’t deny that our dynamic is changing.”

“It is what it is, and I’ll allow that,” Emma freely admitted, “but after a certain point I have to consider my own self-interests.”

“A survivor through and through,” he drawled mockingly, perhaps a touch bitterly. “I wonder if you’ll ever give yourself the option of freedom.”

She looked shaken at his tone and he felt instantly contrite. She didn’t fully understand where his desire for her was rooted—and it wasn’t like he could blame her for it, because he’d never shared that information. And really, she was absolutely right: she _did_ have to keep her own interests at heart. It just kind of hurt that maybe he wasn’t important enough to be one of those interests.

“I’m sorry.” Bucky lifted his hands in apology, in surrender. “We won’t argue. Scout’s honor.”

The moment somehow became even more tense, until Emma snapped, “Let’s make one thing _perfectly_ clear: you were _never_ a scout! Stop feeding me that line.”

“I _could_ have been.”

She shook her head and glared. “Every time you say, ‘Scout’s honor,’ it’s really just code for, ‘I’m trying to set you down gently for this whopper of a lie’.”

“I’ve only said it twice,” he pointed out, feeling more than just slightly attacked.

She instantly countered, “And you’ve lied both times.”

“In my defense,” Bucky pointed out gleefully, “you’re the one kickin’ up an argument.”

Emma paused at that. “Fine,” she admitted, some of the tension leaving her shoulders, “but you still lied the first time.”

“Yes. Yes, I did,” he owned up to it instantly, gesturing a bit as he explained, “because I knew that the only way to get you to even consider the proposition was to lie about it.”

“That’s dirty,” she accused.

He just shrugged. As far as he was concerned, in this case the ends justified the means. “It worked though. And you can’t say you haven’t enjoyed yourself.”

“It’s not as… overwhelming as I had imagined,” she replied, brightening considerably as she thought over their little adventure. “I’m still nervous, but it has been a nice day.”

“See?” He grinned, glad that they had dodged whatever bullet had been looming closer.

She smiled back, but told him, “Don’t be smug.”

Which only made him more so. “It’s my natural state of being.” Maybe.

“Lately, yes.”

Bucky let a few moments go by in silence as they both finished eating, then said, “I’m taking all this to mean you’re ready to head back now.”

Emma nodded, simultaneously pleased and a little disappointed. Before he could spend too long trying to interpret that expression, she replied,  “Sooner would be better than later.”

“All right,” he agreed easily. They’d spent several hours wandering DC, which was pretty good for their first trip out. If she wanted to go back down now, she’d more than earned that right. Although, hopefully, one day soon, it wouldn’t feel like so much of a compulsion for her. “One more stop, though. I promised you a gift, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the sweet, dulcet tones of two goobers reluctantly in love!
> 
> My sincerest gratitude to everyone who bookmarked the story or left kudos, especially to Ramadiii, BubbleBakerPenguinPie, Meg, jjgoodhope, and aorangeinboston for leaving comments!


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma and Bucky do what they do best: talk. But things get out of hand very quickly.
> 
> See end of chapter for content warning.

Emma busied herself around the fire pit, doing her best not to think about Bucky—which was really tough considering that he was just on the other side of her shanty. He had barely left her side in the days since they’d returned to the tunnels, and it was getting increasingly difficult to sort out her thoughts on him. Without physical distance, mental distance was becoming impossible. She wanted to compartmentalize their interactions, but they were all bleeding into each other now, building up into something devastating.

Because the truth was that she liked him, enjoyed his company, and they were dancing around a sudden, keen awareness of each other. It really wasn’t fair; she’d long since come to terms with the fact that—even with limited access to amenities—he was a handsome man, and she’d been given express permission to make a move. She wasn’t sure how to handle that. Logically, Emma knew it would be irresponsible to get that deeply involved. True, she couldn’t remember any of her past relationships, but she had a feeling that where her body went her heart would follow; she wasn’t the sort of person to allow him that far inside her life and not expect more. And he would do his best to encourage it; Bucky would _give_ her more because, ultimately, he wanted her to leave the tunnels with him.

It was a tricky situation, made all the more confusing by the conversation they’d shared. Although, considering his sometimes domineering behavior, she was honestly surprised that they’d had a conversation at all. He had struck her as the sort to sneak a couple of kisses first and ask questions absolutely never. Now, that idea felt shockingly unfair to him—despite his constant joking and teasing, he’d been surprisingly solicitous when they had discussed their relationship. And his openness, his honesty, had only made him seem all the more charming. Here was a man with just as many problems on his plate as she had on her own, and he was not only accepting of that fact but understanding and supportive as well; she knew, deep down, that she would never find another like him.

He was threatening to throw her life completely out of orbit. It would be so easy to give in, to explore the chemistry that existed between them. But where would it end? If they made that jump from friends to lovers it might just undo her entirely. Allowing herself to sink into a deeper level of caring could cloud her judgement—one day she might wake with the realization that his needs superseded her own, that he would never fully heal unless he left. She would follow him out of the tunnels, chasing after the intimacy that they shared, putting herself and everyone else in danger by doing so. Because her lifestyle was _not_ a choice; it was a sacrifice that she was making for the greater good. Pursuing Bucky would test her resolve when she couldn’t afford to fail; already, he had caused her to waiver. Leaving the tunnels was not an option—she had to stay safe, had to stay hidden, passing through life without a whisper to betray her presence.

Only, where did _that_ end? Emma had never questioned the logic of her plan before; remaining undiscovered and alive were results enough for her. But really, what _was_ the logical conclusion here? Eventually she would die, either of the elements or, god willing, old age. Who would protect her bitter legacy then? Someone would find the devices one day, someone who didn’t have the first clue about the power they’d discovered, and the results would be cataclysmic. Was her sacrifice merely delaying the inevitable?

It suddenly seemed all too futile, damning no matter which way she turned. But she’d created this mess with her own two hands, there had to be a way for her to clean it up. However, resources in the tunnels were limited and her knowledge on the pertinent subject matter was hazy at best—it would take far more than she had at her fingertips to destroy the devices. If she confided in Bucky, explained her circumstances, would he help her? _Could_ he? Her heart leaped into her throat at the thought, making her feel sickly and anxious. He had his own demons to contend with and the idea of getting him caught up in something so potentially dangerous was distressing.

“It’s like you’ve got the weight of the world pressing down on your shoulders.” It was a testament to his sharp perception that he didn’t even have to face her in order to interpret her growing silence.

Emma sighed, stoking the fire despondently. “It certainly feels that way.”

Bucky finally turned around and raised a brow at her. “What’s got you down?”

“Existential dread mixed with a dawning sense of futility,” she shrugged, surprised at how quickly the truth sprang from her lips.

He whistled. “That would do it.”

Emma considered him for a moment, frowning before she asked, “How do you stay so glib in the face of all your struggles?”

“Because I face those problems head on,” he replied, moving to settle beside her. “I’m a soldier, sweetheart. I suss out all the angles, consider my options, and then plan my attack accordingly.” He slowly reached out to lace their fingers together before continuing, “When circumstances change, I reevaluate and readjust, but I _always_ keep moving forward.”

She bit her lip, both because finding comfort in one another felt so natural now and because his words struck a deep chord within her. Their circumstances really weren’t so different, and yet he always found the strength to push ahead. Why couldn’t she do the same? “More and more, I’m realizing that my natural inclination is to not do anything.”

“Ignoring the situation will not make it go away,” Bucky replied, not unkindly.

“I know,” she gave a bitter laugh, “and that’s the stupid part. I am _so damn aware_ that this problem isn’t going away, but I don’t know how to fix it—never even _thought_ of trying to fix it until just now.”

He pulled her closer into his side, letting her rest her head on his shoulder as he explained, “A shared burden is a lighter load. What are you hiding from, Emma?”

She wanted to tell him, wanted to take solace in his grounding presence, but it wouldn’t be fair. He was still in a vulnerable place, mentally, and the least she could do was protect him from this particular burden. So she just shook her head and told him, “I couldn’t do that to you.”

Bucky didn’t like her answer, but he accepted it. Although he clearly couldn’t stop himself from pressing a little, offering, “If you won’t trust me with the big picture, let me help with the little things. What do you need?”

“I wish I knew,” Emma replied seriously. With her her finite resources and narrow scope, it was hard to know where to even start. What she really needed was her college degree back, but that was beyond even his reach.

“It’s about those arm braces you never take off, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she admitted, since there was no point in denying the obvious, “but it’s so much bigger than that. I’m not a fighter like you, Bucky; I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Hey, hey, none of that,” he shushed her, running a comforting hand along her shoulder. “You’re a survivor, and that’s better than a fighter; it makes you cautious and considerate. You are thoughtful and all the more dangerous for it.” He tightened his hold, working to reassure her. “And let’s be fair here, you’ve definitely got the fightin' spirit in you somewhere, you just need to stop puttin' it in a choke-hold.”

As she considered his words her eyes drifted to the shelves, falling on the gift he’d bought her above ground. It was an emergency radio, the kind powered by a hand-crank. The reception was terrible; even the best stations came in more as static than anything else, but it was enough. Enough to pick out a semi-familiar tune and enough to be pleased by. Her own little luxury; a rich treasure she never would have possessed if not for him.

It wasn’t fair—Bucky was considerate, friendly, generous, and so damn easy to rely on—and she kept having to remind herself that she wasn’t allowed to give in. She had her own goals and getting involved would only complicate them. But right now she’d reached her tipping point; his compassionate and lighthearted attitude made her crave more. There was something mysterious budding between them—the seductive ghost of ‘what if’—and she wanted to explore it.

Emma swallowed hard and tried to blank out all the warnings that her rational side was screaming at her. Instead, she pivoted, threw a thigh over his own and straddled his lap. As her hands came up to lightly grip his shoulders, she admired the frankly _stunned_ look on his face. She didn’t give herself time to think through what she was doing—hesitation would stay her in this moment—and quickly leaned in to press her lips to his. He was frozen against her long enough that she began to worry she’d overstepped their boundaries, but then he snapped out of it. His hand came up to cradle the back of her head, angling her so that he could lean deeper into the embrace. Ever so slowly, his lips teased hers, sliding back and forth in a chaste imitation of a dance.

Their kiss was by no means perfect—his beard was rough against her skin and, even sitting down, their height difference made things a little awkward—but it was nice. Like everything else they did together, their embrace now was comfortable and easy. But then Bucky moved, opened his mouth and dropped his hand from her head in order to grip her hips, and the kiss changed. An edge of desperation began to claw at her as the wet heat of his tongue teased the seam of her lips.

* * *

Emma’s lips parted and Bucky couldn’t help but moan at the first questing touch of her tongue. Her hips stuttered at the sound, accidentally grinding down against him, which only made him moan again. She moved experimentally after that, unsure of herself but quickly gaining confidence. Her hips began to roll in a sensuous rhythm, tongue still gleefully dancing with his own, and he knew he was lost to her. She was fast becoming wild upon him, and he was helpless to do anything other than follow her down.

He’d panicked at the first brush of her lips, paralyzed by the bitter realization that he had no idea what he was doing, had no helpful memories to draw upon. However, in the end, it hadn’t mattered; the plush feeling of her lips pressed against his own had awakened a frenzied sort of instinct—his body knew what his brain did not. His hands played around her thighs, not to guide her but to further enjoy her determined movements. She was powerful, abandoned, working toward a pleasure she’d long denied herself. Her soft curves pressed against him, sliding and grinding as she became attuned with her own body, and the sight was enchanting.

Bucky let one of his hands slip up under her shirt, seeking the warm glide of skin. She groaned at his touch, a desperate, throaty sound that sent fire through his veins. He took that as encouragement to seek higher ground, leaning back a little. She growled at that, nipping lightly as she chased after him, but when he brushed his thumb over a cloth-covered nipple, she shuddered.

“Do that again,” Emma demanded hotly before reclaiming his kiss.

So he did, earning himself a snapping thrust in return. His skin suddenly felt too tight, to say nothing of his pants. She was driving him wild, pushing his pleasure toward a precipice that really should have involved less clothing. He wanted the tight, wet heat of her clenched around his shaft. Wanted to watch, to feel as they connected on a primal level. He wanted to meet the ache that drove her, to satisfy the hungry quest of her rolling hips. More than anything, he wanted to lay her back and become one, to solidify their kinship into something unquestionably permanent.

But it was too soon. They were rushing headlong into the unknown, and the last thing he wanted to do was sacrifice their friendship for a fleeting passion. He didn’t think he would be able to stand it if they had sex and she immediately backtracked; he needed to know that she wouldn’t resent him for pulling her out of the tunnels before they made that sort of commitment.

A little dirty grinding, though? Not like he would resist when he had a lap full of wanton woman! So Bucky gritted his teeth and tried to match her rhythm, savoring the steady burn of desire that she was fanning to new heights.

“Talk to me,” he groaned against her lips, because even locked like this his instincts were driving him to mouth off.

Emma laughed, fingers diving into his hair as she asked, “What do you want me to say?”

“Anything,” he replied immediately. “Tell me what you want; tell me how you feel.”

She whimpered at that, losing her rhythm for a second. “Touch me,” she pleaded, growling low when his hands found her breasts. “I feel like I’m going insane, flying apart at the seams. I’m hot, I ache, and I want.” She leaned up to lick a warm stripe over his Adam’s Apple, then whispered in his ear, “And there’s not... enough... _friction_... to get me there.”

That sounded like a justifiable demand, and never let it be said that he left a woman needing. Bucky rucked her shirt up while jerking her bra down, revealing her pale flesh to his hungry gaze. As much as he wanted to admire that view, he didn’t look for long—instead, he leaned over and caught one of her stiff nipples between his lips. The new angle arched her back and pushed her hips forward, letting her ride the seam of his fly. She bucked desperately, clutching him closer as he lavished attention on her breasts. The sounds she made were _obscene_ , guttural calls and encouragements that only made him harder for her.

Emma unapologetically rode along the thick ridge of his shaft, teasing the both of them toward completion. As he sucked careful love bites onto the swells of her breasts, her hips pistoned against him, urging the both of them to cry out. Just as he was beginning to fear that she was about to prove more than he could handle, she came, shuddering against him as her inner muscles clamped down around nothing. She was glorious in that moment—flushed and carefree, biting her own lip and keening as she crested the wild heat of her orgasm. He was helpless to do anything but to follow her, uncaring that he was fully clothed. Electricity roared down his spine, gathering low until it exploded from him in waves.

She fell against him, slumping as the energy fled her. For several long moments there was silence, save for the desperate gasping of their breath. Then Emma burst out laughing and he tried _very hard_ not to be offended by it.

Catching his look, she scratched her nails against his scalp reassuringly and explained, “That was the complete opposite of what I told myself I was supposed to do.” With a tired smile, she shook her head at him. “You are trouble incarnate.”

Bucky had _known_ she was going to retreat from her behavior—it was the whole reason his pants had stayed on during their little affair—but it still _hurt_ to hear her say it. He wouldn’t regret their actions though, not for a single second, because it meant she was curious, approaching a place where she was allowing herself to become attached. So instead, he simply righted her clothing and gave her a filthy smile. “Lucky for me then that you’re a trouble magnet.”

She smiled back, gaze still open and heated, and he wanted to keep that look on her face, but there were words building up in his throat. He wanted to stop them because they were exactly the _wrong_ thing to say right now, but it was no use. “Let’s go on another little excursion, you and I. See what other kinds of trouble we can make together.”

And, just like he’d known it would, Emma’s smile slipped. She didn’t look away though, didn’t even move when she finally replied, “It’s a terrible idea, Bucky.”

“Come on,” he pleaded, rubbing his thumbs into the smooth flesh just above her waistband. He was desperate not to let the passion between them die, desperate to keep her close and prepare her for the difficulties that laid ahead.

“No,” she shook her head. “Last time we had a purpose; there’s no reason to go above now.”

He smiled charmingly and replied, “Think of it as a date.”

“Why?” She stiffened against him, drawing away in an effort to read his expression. “ _Why_ would you think that would make it better?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Emma,” he snapped sarcastically, bruised by the distance he still sensed between them. “Maybe the desperate make-out session _you_ initiated? I mean, call me old fashioned, but I like to think we’re capable of doin’ more than just bickering and grindin’ on each other.”

She flinched, withdrawing further as she said to herself, “This was such a huge mistake.”

His new-found emotions were running rampant, screaming and grieving for this abrupt rift just after they’d shared something so incredible. “Don’t say that, sweetheart,” he begged her earnestly. “I’m not made of stone over here.”

He must have looked truly beaten in that moment, because her eyes popped wide and she became remorseful. “Shit, I’m sorry,” she apologized, wrapping him in a tight hug. “I loved it, and I’m not aiming to slight your masculinity or hurt you feelings, okay? I’m just—”

“Desperately clinging to a lifestyle that’s gotten you absolutely no where?”

“I’m scared,” Emma huffed into his chest. “We’re moving so quickly, and I just don’t know if I’m making the right choices anymore.”

Bucky folded his arms around her, drawing her in close. “Just give us a chance, that’s all I’m askin’, doll,” he told her quietly. “We fit together so well. Are you honestly not prepared to fight for that at all?”

She hesitated and he swore he felt his heart breaking. “I’m standing on the edge of the abyss here, Bucky. One wrong move and all my sacrifices will have been made in vain.”

“Reality isn’t colored in black and white, sweetheart,” he replied. “You just have to reevaluate your options; I guarantee you can do more than just hide away. Nothin’ worth having ever came easy.”

And, miraculously, his words seemed to reach her, to pierce her cloud of defensive retreat. She swallowed hard and quietly told him, “Just a sort trip, okay? I mean it.”

He smiled. “Scout’s honor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Nonpenetrative Sex (tagged).
> 
> Something about this chapter just makes me laugh helplessly at myself. I thought it would be interesting to explore an intimate moment from a man's point of view, and it really highlighted how hot and cold Emma blows. She's tempestuous, that one.
> 
> Thank you's all around to everyone who bookmarked and/or left kudos, and extra big thanks to BubbleBakerPenguinPie, jjgoodhope, Monokhrome, Meg, and honeyheart for leaving comments!


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma and Bucky return for another adventure above ground, but events take a sharp and decidedly unwanted turn.

Emma took a deep breath, fortifying her nerves as they worked their way through the upper reaches of the tunnels. The exit laid just ahead of them: a heavy metal door that took some effort to sneak in and out of. Beyond the door was a covered ditch, a sort of concrete pit that opened up on the outskirts of DC. It was not a fantastic exit; it would have been easier to use one of the many utility hatches, but those would have drawn too much attention. At least the heavy door was secluded.

Leaving the tunnels was still surreal. Reality laid out before her, a world of bright colors and sounds, endless sky spiralling upward to the heavens. Out here there was no brickwork blocking her in, no crumbling cave-like walls to hide the sun and moon. If it weren’t for the for the people, for all the unaccounted gazes, she would consider this paradise. It was such a stark contrast to her drab and miserable life underground that she couldn’t help but want to see the world.

Emma was no longer sure if she was allowed to hope for more or not. If she ever found a way to destroy the devices, then there would be no reason to keep hiding—true, she might still get captured, but with her sins wiped clean she’d definitely risk her life for a taste of freedom. She was tired of being a coward, tired of keeping to the shadows; Bucky was right, she had other options, she just had to consider them. For a chance to be normal again, to join him in a world that didn’t reek of fear and desperation, she was willing to make changes.

Which meant she had to research, had to reclaim her scientific background. There had to be a way to spark her memories, get the ball rolling so that she could make a plan. Once she no longer had to worry about the devices falling into anyone’s hands she could relax, could follow Bucky into the wildness of civilization without any regrets. She savored that thought as they meandered around DC, slowly working their way to more populace areas.

Bucky eventually interrupted her ponderings. “All right,” he said, throwing an arm around her shoulders, “so food first—”

She sank into the embrace, soaking up the heat of his body to combat the winter chill. His words caused a bit of suspicion though—it was hard not to be wary when he so often bartered for interactions. “Are you trying to butter me up?”

“You looked like you saw the face of god the last time you ate pancakes,” he teased, smiling down at her. “I wanna see that expression again.”

It was a shoddy lie, coming from him. Good food was impossible to come by in the tunnels—even with the ration line they lived on relatively unappetizing fair—and she hadn’t bothered to hide her reaction to their meal last time. Nor would she _this_ time, to be honest, but it was a little insulting to know that he was playing to her weak points. Still, the idea of hot food made her happy, so she tried to joke, laughing, “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

“I am starvin’,” he agreed with a grin, but those piercing eyes watched her knowingly. He knew her tells, understood that he was pushing her outside her comfort zone—it might have been nice to know that he was scanning for stress signs if it had earned her any sort of reprieve from his inexorable march toward progress. “After that, we’ll have the city at our feet. Anything in particular you wanna do?”

God, _yes_. Emma wanted to dive head first into as many reference articles as she could lay her hands on, but she wasn’t sure how he would take that. Given their recent intimacy, her research mission didn’t seem like the sort of thing that they should do together. It might honestly bore him to death, but she didn’t want to waste this opportunity. So she hedged, “It’s not exactly a dating activity.”

But, supportive as ever, he merely shook his head and replied, “Doesn’t matter.”

“There’s something I want to look into,” she told him quietly. “How hard would it be to get us into a library?”

Bucky laughed and asked, “Into a place that’s _open_ to the _general public?_ You _do_ remember libraries, don’t you?”

“Shut up,” she grumbled. His teasing hit a little too close to the heart. Over the past several days he’d made quiet indications that he knew about her memory difficulties, and that made her uncomfortable. Despite him having admitted to his own amnesia, she liked to play things closer to the vest—after all, the last time she’d shared important information, it had sent her into a downward spiral that had eventually robbed her of her life. “I meant how far would we have to walk.”

“Depends on where we eat, but probably not very far at all.”

They ended up at another diner—courtesy of one Miss Lily Willis—and both ate an ungodly amount food. If it hadn’t tasted so good, Emma might have been embarrassed about their over-consumption, but frankly life was too unpredictable for those type of regrets. There was no shame in savoring a good meal and that was exactly what they did, chatting and teasing all the while.

The change between her and Bucky was baffling. In a lot of ways, their behavior remained very much the same—effortless conversation complimented by instinctual contact—and yet, now there was something _extra_ that lingered between them. Each touch was suddenly charged, imbued with more meaning than the simple comfort that they had been sharing. Now there was promise in the air, the seductive call of pleasure luring them closer. That siren’s song had led her astray—opened her mind to new possibilities—and she was eager to indulge again.

But first she had to clear her slate, which meant researching. Emma breathed a sigh of relief once they entered the library. Even with the distracting awareness that Bucky was always just a single step behind her, this territory felt peaceful, familiar.

“So, what are you looking up?” He asked, idly studying a laminated floor plan as she fiddled around with one of the computers.

Emma wrote down the series of call numbers that her search had kicked up and replied, “I have a very unique problem that I am no longer qualified to solve.” She grabbed his hand and headed for the stacks. “I’m hoping that I’ll be able to find something in one of the scientific journals here that will point me in the right direction.”

Reference and circulation material was just off the plush main lobby—like a dragon’s hoard hidden from view—a narrow door taking them into a separate world entirely. Entering the stacks felt like coming home. The walls that could be seen were made of pasty looking cinder-bricks, the concrete floors rose up into consecutive half-levels that had to be navigated by a series of convoluted stairways, and little plateaus were equipped with ancient looking study tables. Metal shelves gathered in cramped aisles, row after row of ceaseless knowledge, books perfuming the air with the gentle scent of dust and ancient paper. Navigating the shelves felt like second nature, like she’d done it a thousand times before, and that put her at ease. Eventually, she found the section she was looking for and began pulling battered, leather-bound collections down.

Bucky helped her carry the books to a nearby table, studying one of the volumes in his hands. He seemed to recognize it for some reason, frowning as he asked her, “Resonance frequencies?”

Emma was taken aback. He was a smart man, no question, but the soldier didn’t seem the type to indulge in scientific research. “Do you know anything about this?”

“Not really,” he shrugged, but the uneasy look didn’t leave him. If anything, he was compelled to draw closer to her, looming and hovering as though prepared to protect her from an outside threat. It was a strange turn in behavior, and she couldn’t help but notice as he became increasingly more tense, seemingly counting down the minutes to some unknown disaster.

She did her best to tune him out, to lose herself in the flow of knowledge. A lot of the articles went straight over her head, but there was familiarity in the rhythm of their logic. Some of them she even marginally understood and knew enough about to analyze. There was no great welling of information let loose from within her as she’d hoped, but little things came back. Perhaps, given enough time, she would be able to piece together a decent working knowledge; it would mean coming above more often, but she was willing to risk it.

Only, she wasn’t so sure Bucky was. He was acting edgy in a way that she hadn’t seen in weeks, expression going _dangerously blank_ as he studied their surroundings. His attention kept returning to a fellow patron—a nondescript man in a nondescript suit, lazily thumbing his way through a newspaper—although it didn’t seem as if the other man noticed. The stranger looked up every now and again, placid and unmoving, but with each sweep of his gaze Bucky grew more restless.

“We need to go,” Bucky whispered to her, leaning in close so that his voice wouldn’t carry.

Emma shot a glance to him and then the stranger. “Do you know him?”

“No,” he shook his head. “But I know what he wants, and we’re not going to oblige.”

The massive library now felt about a thousand times too small, walls closing in on her in a way that even the tunnels never had. Dear god, was this it? Had one of them been tracked down by their respective demons? Her heart was suddenly beating in her throat—instinct screaming that she had to get away, had to slip back underground—and yet, the first thing that sprang to her lips was a plaintive, “I’m not finished yet.”

He put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but the icy blankness shuttering his eyes robbed the gesture of any reassurance. In a voice suddenly dropping into a measured, borderline monotone rhythm, he told her, “I need you to act like you are, Emma. Put the book down slowly, shuffle some papers and then head back into the stacks as if to get a different book. There’s a loading bay exit just beyond the materials in Stack E4,” he surreptitiously gestured to the section in question, carefully angling himself to block her from the stranger’s view. “Go outside and wait for me there. If I don’t join you in ten minutes, head here,” at that he handed her a slip of paper, a local address scrawled sloppily across it. “Speak _only_ to the man named Steve Rogers.”

Emma frowned at that name; there was something incredibly familiar about it, but there was no time to linger over why. Bucky had some kind of a plan here, and she was a little frightened that she knew what the soldier had in mind. Hoping she was wrong, she asked him, “Where are you going?”

“That gentleman and I need to _talk._ ” Only, the way he said it made it very plain that talking was the last thing on his agenda.

She felt frozen in place until Bucky gently nudged her. After that, she did just as he said—put her book down, wandered into the stacks, and slipped out the loading door. Because really, when it came down to it, that stranger posed a risk; if he set off alarms for Bucky, then chances were high he was a danger to them. Anything that threatened their survival was a problem to be dealt with. She was a little uneasy with the thought of what Bucky might do, but it was better than either of them being captured.

So Emma waited, dripping cold sweat and feeling sick with fear. She forced her mind to quiet, to stop analyzing how Bucky might get hurt— _or worse_ —or what she would do if he didn’t join her. Her hands shook as the minutes ticked by, each second a bitter reminder of why she’d hidden away in the first place.

The door beside her finally opened and Bucky stepped through. He didn’t look any worse for wear—didn’t even look rumpled, really—but there was a suspicious lump tucked into his coat pocket.

“Is that a _gun?”_ She asked him, trying not to panic. He hadn’t had that when they left the tunnels, so he must have taken it off the stranger. What had happened in that library?

“We have to leave,” he told her, which was answer enough. The nondescript, gun-toting stranger was likely _very dead_ and they were going to be in a lot of trouble if they didn’t start moving soon.

They walked at a measured pace, neither slow nor fast, effortlessly slipping into the crowds. Mimicking the flow of traffic, they allowed themselves to be carried this way and that, no clear destination in mind. Emma felt horrifically lost in that moment, unmoored as the tides rapidly changed around her. And, despite the quickly growing stoicism taking him over, Bucky read her mood with ease—he laced their hands together, pulling her closer as they drifted with the pack. It was a small comfort, given what they were potentially facing, but it _was_ a comfort nonetheless.

Nerves twanging, they only made it a couple of blocks before she felt compelled to speak. There were questions burning her tongue, such as, “How did he find us?”

“The organization he worked for would have been alerted when you started searching the library catalogue for any material related to resonance frequencies,” he didn’t even look at her when he replied, cold eyes canvasing their surroundings in an efficient, mechanical manner.

_Her fault?_ Emma had been so careful for so long, yet the very minute she resolved to turn her life around was when she blundered! Justified suffering. Hadn’t she thought that a million times before? All her sacrifices had been made for the greater good. Look where a moment of greed had gotten her! If she was captured now it would be game over—the three devices were always on her—mankind’s fate sealed over a fleeting quest for pleasure.

Devastated, she whispered, “They’re after _me._ ”

“Not necessarily,” Bucky countered, flicking a vacant glance her way. “It doesn’t seem likely that anyone would arm themselves that heavily in order to apprehend a scientist; he was probably looking for me. We’re lucky he broke protocol and approached me on his own, otherwise this could have been a much more difficult situation.”

“Did you kill him?” She asked pointblank, unsure how to feel about it. On the one hand, survival was their paramount concern—what was _one_ man in the face of protecting billions? On the other hand, the warm and charming companion she’d been growing fonder of had just coldly snuffed out a life. His behavior was so at odds with the chatty, teasing jerk she’d been spending time with that she wasn’t sure how to reconcile it. Despite their handholding, he was even more distant now than when she’d thought of him as Mr. Top Dog.

He did not seem to share her concern even the slightest—in fact, he didn’t seem to be feeling anything _at all_ —merely told her, “He was an obstacle, Emma, and we aren’t in the clear yet.”

Far from comforted by his words, she returned her attention to the world around them. Even in the winter, there were a surprising number of tourists in DC—a chaotic sea of clashing fashions and accents, interspersed here and there with harried locals. But there were little bastions of anti-chaos: grim men and women in nondescript suits. Each one seemed to have completed a study in acceptable blandness—hairstyles tidy and average, expressions dull, physiques lightly muscled but largely unthreatening—and in that way they stood out. There were three of them that she could see, flanking them to either side from a slight distance, each one surreptitiously trying to speak into hidden earpieces.

Emma felt her breath shallow out as she squeezed Bucky’s hand and told him, “We’re being followed.”

“I know,” he whispered, squeezing back.

But he didn’t elaborate beyond that so she felt compelled to ask, “Should we split up?” Because, really, what _was_ the plan here?

“We’ve already been spotted together,” he told her, carefully guiding them through a large knot of foreign tourists. “Regardless of who their target really is, they’ll be after both of us now. Our best shot at mutual survival is by sticking together.”

“So what do we do?”

“Don’t panic,” Bucky replied; his tone never changed, but he did drop her hand to wrap his arm around her waist, guiding her by the small of her back. “We’ll lose them in the crowds. Once they’re off our tails we’ll ditch these clothes and hop a train.” He sounded surprisingly well versed in this exact situation. How long had be running before he’d settled down?

“A train?” She balked. “Wouldn’t it be better to just head back underground? We’re safe there.” She wanted to go home, to burrow into her shanty, wrap herself in familiar sights and smells and forget that this day had ever happened.

He merely gave her a tight shake of his head. “We _were_ safe there, but we have to assume they know about the tunnels and that they’re waiting for us to return. DC is compromised, we’ll have to move on.”

Emma fought off hyperventilation, breathing raggedly as panic tore through her. She’d been getting used to the idea that _one day_ she might have the option of leaving the underground for good, but this was different. This was being told that she could _never_ go back, that her shanty and everything in it had been lost the minute she’d hit ‘search’ on the library computer. The stable fixtures of her life were being pulled away and she wasn’t sure she could survive without them—she didn’t know the first thing about living on the run.

Biting her lip, leaning into his side for support, her panic began spilling out like she was an uncorked bottle, ending with a frenzied, “I don’t even have any money.”

Bucky made an abortive sound that might have been a chuckle and replied, “You’re a pickpocket, is that really a problem?”

Which was sound logic. She was a pickpocket, an _excellent_ pickpocket, and that was a skill that a person could survive on—she wasn’t completely without talents. But the future was looming over them, a dark unknown that she wasn’t prepared to handle; she needed to know that there was some kind of a plan. “What do we do after the train ride?”

“We’ll hole up in a motel somewhere,” he said, changing their path yet again, skillfully dodging their pursuers, “figure out a better plan of attack.”

“I don’t think that I can do this,” she lamented. Her world was suddenly far bigger and infinitely more dangerous than it had ever been before. It was taking a lot of effort just to wrap her mind around the idea that her safe haven was as good as gone, that she had no choice but to trust that Bucky would steer her right. Which was a bad chain of reasoning because it only served to remind her that she would never have been up here in the first place if not for him. Suddenly angry, she growled, “I told you that I didn’t want to leave the tunnels, but you just had to keep pushing!”

“Emma, your life has been on hold underground,” he replied calmly. “Running might be a lot harder than hiding, but at least it’s a reaffirmation that you’re truly alive.”

“There’s no end to this in sight!”

He seemed almost irritated at that, pointing out, “It’s no worse than what you were already doing. We’ll figure this out, honey.”

_Honey._ He hadn’t called her that since their first meeting—such an impersonal endearment. It lacked the warmth of his usual ‘sweetheart’ or his infrequent but heated ‘doll’. Somehow, that simple word kicked the feet out from under her more than their predicament did. She had noticed his demeanor sliding backward, had told herself that the soldier was only reacting to their situation, but his suddenly closed off nature was starting to hurt her.

Not so long ago, they’d been wrapped in a sultry heat together—open and vulnerable and striving toward a mutual communion. Even though they hadn’t truly had sex, the chemistry between them had instantly turned explosive. Her heart had already started engaging. She wouldn’t call it love, not yet, but he had made her begun to hope. Only now he was pulling away and it left her feeling raw, like an exposed nerve. She couldn’t put those feelings back in a box and pretend she’d never let them out in the first place, and the fact that he _could_ was distressing.

A somber hush fell between them—Bucky focused and Emma a bit heartbroken—as they continued working through the crowds. After several sharp and wild turns, they finally lost their pursuers. Once they knew they were alone, Bucky hustled them at lightning speed in and out of several clothing stores, picking up odds and ends before they raced their way to a parking lot. Their trail got strange after that, jacking a car to get them to the closest Grey Hound station only to walk away _without_ catching a bus. Eventually, they found themselves down by the tracks—not a metro line, but freight—where they carefully jumped on and hid in a shipping car, nestled among the packages as they let the train carry them into the unknown.

It was a solid getaway, a hard earned victory, yet for many hours their silence continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the bleak cliffhanger. I hate to end on that note, but the next chapter is its own kettle of fish.
> 
> Library modeled after Kansas University's Watson Library, aka the library that became a labyrinth. It remains, to this day, the single creepiest place I have ever had the privilege of studying in.
> 
> Big thanks all around to everyone who bookmarked or left a kudos, especially to BubbleBakerPenguinPie, Anon, jjgoodhope, and PrimaDea who all left lovely comments.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma and Bucky almost find respite at a motel.

Somewhere around midnight they hopped off the freight train at a decrepit-looking junction station, making their way on foot toward the closest source of light pollution. It turned out to be a rinky-dink little town, more of a trucker stop than an actual village, which suited their needs just fine. A transitory population would make it harder for them to stick out or leave an impression on the few true locals.

Like the motel clerk who was currently grinning at them, making insinuating chitchat as though he thought he was checking in a hooker and her john. Had to give the guy credit though, Bucky’s eyes were drilling into him like blue fire but he never once lost the rhythm of his banter. He must have done this countless times before, which meant they were just one more pair among an ocean others.

“We charge hourly,” the clerk smiled, all oil and false charm. “Cash only.”

From somewhere in the recesses of his coat, Bucky drew out a crumpled wad of hundred dollar bills. Emma just barely prevented her jaw from dropping at the sight, wondering when he’d had the opportunity to lift that much cash since they’d been on a train for the better part of a day.

“ _My,_ ” the clerk’s grin slid wider, borderline manic, “we _are_ the optimist, aren’t we?”

Exhausted and emotionally bankrupt, Emma found that jibe hilarious for some reason, but her laughter died before it even started. Bucky’s gloved left hand was clenching reflexively, as though he was just barely restraining himself from reaching out with that cybernetic strength to pop the night clerk’s head clean off his shoulders. Taking that as her cue, she interceded, grabbing the room key and hustling her soldier away before he snapped. This was not the time for memorable outbursts.

Their room probably would have seemed like a disaster site to anyone else. The carpet was worn and fraying, even stained a suspicious rusty-maroon in a few places. Yet, it complemented the wallpaper perfectly: a torn and peeling mural of indeterminate color. The furniture looked more than a little rickety—probably third or fourth hand—but it was all still upright. Aside from the fairly new looking mattress, not a single inch of the place had seen a cleaning product in at least a couple of weeks. A normal person would have walked straight back out of that room and slept in their car, but they didn’t have a car and they were far from normal. Frankly, it was a little hard not to be insulted that the seedy motel room was still slightly more civilized than her shanty.

Emma had barely even shut the door before Bucky stripped his outerwear off and started pacing, sweeping the room in long strides as though he expected to find ninjas hiding behind the ratty curtains. His search didn’t turn up anything out of the ordinary—not unless you counted the package of instant coffee that looked like it had been there since the Truman Administration.

She idly watched him complete a couple more circuits, becoming increasingly more agitated with every round. This was one of the first true signs of emotion he’d given since they’d fled the library, but it didn’t exactly fill her with hope. She was irritated—tired, hungry, frightened, and hurt—and his pacing was working her every last nerve right now, making her snap, “What?”

He pivoted, facing her, words coming out flat and stilted, “He had no right to just assume you’re some kind of—” Bucky floundered and cut himself off, as if unable to even say the word for fear of slighting her.

“What are you going to do, defend my honor?” Emma rolled her eyes. “I don’t care and, honestly, it’s a good cover. Although why he thinks a prostitute would be wearing snow-boots and three pairs of pants is a mystery.”

He said nothing in return, merely spun away and resumed his annoying flurry of movements.

She did her best to ignore him, settling down in the lumpy armchair by the window. The glass was dirty, her view obstructed by thick safety wires, but she could just barely make out the stars. It was the first time she’d seen the night sky in almost a year, and for some reason the sight made her melancholy. Her eyes scanned the velvet darkness, picking out the familiar triad of Orion’s belt. It had always been her favorite constellation as a child, so easy to find. Emma had vague memories of stargazing with her parents—who may have been astronomers—of staying up ‘til all hours of the night, discussing the wonders of the universe. Back then she’d been awed. Now, gazing up into the cold reaches of infinity, she merely felt insignificant. A tiny speck of dust caught up in a massive tornado.

For the second time, her life had been completely derailed, and she had to find a new way to survive. It certainly didn’t help matters that she didn’t even know if the suits from DC had been after her or Bucky. A traitorous part of her sincerely just wanted to disappear, to ditch him and slink through the night to find a new underground to become a part of. She wouldn’t do it, no matter how irritated she was, but the thought was tempting—slide back into familiarity and let the world blur around her. But he was her best shot at survival and on some level she knew that leaving him would hurt worse than weathering the growing distance between them.

Bucky made a noise—sort of like a gurgling whine—and became deathly still. She watched his reflection in the window, watched as he completely blanked out for several long minutes. Then he twitched, right hand rising up toward his left should before he forced it back down. His expressional-void became vaguely flavored with panic; perhaps the fact that he’d killed a man was finally catching up to him.

“Are you all right?” She asked him, although she didn’t turn around. Right now she was too drained to offer much more support, maybe even a little unfairly spiteful about his taciturn mood.

He stared at her and did not respond, which was supremely eerie. Her nervousness was only heightened when he slowly approached her, bodily lifted her out of the chair, took her place, and then settled her sideways across his lap. All without so much as uttering a single syllable. Bucky being nonverbal was weird enough, but his behavior right now was downright strange and a little off-putting.

That uneasiness only served to fuel Emma’s distemper. In a withering, measured tone she told him, “I’m strung a little _tight_ right now. And maybe, one day, if we’re both still alive, we’ll look back on this moment and laugh, but right now I really don’t want to be anywhere near you.” She tried to get out of the chair, but his right arm stayed carefully locked around her waist—he didn’t even acknowledge her struggle.

Black mood diving further south, she snapped, “I get that a certain amount of non-response helps you cope with stress—and _believe_ me, I _know_ it’s been a stressful day—but you can’t expect me to provide you comfort after you shut me out.” Her hands pushed at his chest, trying to gain leverage, but also a little bit out of spite. “ _You,_ king of the tit for tat who’s always pushing for emotional bonding— _you stonewalled me_. And, apparently, I am petty enough in the face of a life or death situation to still take offense at that.” She made another valiant effort to get up, but it was clear that she wasn’t going anywhere until he let go. “So I’m going to need a little time to myself in order to cope with this maudlin drivel that you riled up in me.”

Bucky stared ahead vacantly; it was unclear if he’d even registered her words or her attempts to put distance between them. His right arm jerked again, almost coming all the way around her as it headed toward his left shoulder. He couldn’t quite reach with her in his lap, but that didn’t stop his hand from clawing at the air. With his fingers slicing menacingly close to her face, it finally dawned on Emma what was happening. She’d seen this before. He was rejecting his prosthetic arm again, falling through a dark place where his mind disassociated from his body.

Her annoyance dried up in a flash, replaced by a shot of adrenaline and a fresh welling of panic. “ _I’m an asshole,_ ” she bit out, turning slightly to face him, feeling guiltier by the second. He was a _war_ veteran, for crying out loud, an admitted _torture_ victim! And while he’d been trying to fight off the horrors lurking in his own mind, she’d been childishly nursing a bruised ego. “You’re having a flashback, aren’t you?”

He didn’t respond, but she hadn’t expected him to. His movements were becoming frantic, coursing through his whole body as he fell deeper into himself.

It took a lot of effort to _stay_ on his lap now, and even more effort to wrap her arm around his right elbow to stop him from hurting either of them. “Bucky?” She called out, low and comforting, trying to mimic the same tone of voice she’d used last time. Emma wasn’t sure if her words could reach him, but there was little else she could do. “Bucky, I need you to listen to my voice. That helped last time, remember?”

* * *

_He was a blank slate, an engineered marvel that could be programmed and commanded. In place of a birth, he’d been manufactured, little better than a puppet or a dummy. And marionettes, well, they didn’t have to feel bad about their actions because the choice wasn’t really theirs—the blame fell to whoever’s sneaky fingers were pulling the strings. He was merely a vessel filled with someone else’s will._

“Can you hear me?”

_Only, every now and again the fog shifted, little drops of self peaking through like weak rays of sunshine. In those moments it was very hard to reconcile what he’d been told. ‘You’re an automaton,’ they’d say, but his muzzled soul belied that. In a way, he’d always known that he’d been someone else once, before the long freezes and the constant fighting. He had a feeling that maybe he’d even been someone good, but he hadn’t put much effort into exploring that possibility._

“I need you to listen carefully.”

_Because a good man would have to take responsibility for his actions. A good man would not settle for hiding behind the idea that someone else was really to blame for him pulling the trigger. It was easier to remain passive than fight against what he’d been turned into._

“Please relax.”

_Until he’d met the man on the bridge—the ever resolute Captain America. After that, the Winter Soldier had had all sorts of questions about loyalty and honor, and he hadn’t been able to drown them out with the white noise of orders like usual. The meeting had preyed on his mind so much that he’d even felt compelled to speak about it, earning himself a go-around with the illustrious memory wiper._

“Bucky?”

_Except HYDRA’s technology wasn’t quite as advanced as they liked to think. The wiper had only worked so well on him in the past because he’d wanted to forget. But he stubbornly clung to the memory of Captain America, gripped it in an iron fist as he writhed against the machine. And, in the end, he’d won—a couple hours of confusion, but he hadn’t forgotten. He’d even ended up saving the man in question._

“Just focus on my voice.”

_And then he’d wandered away, because he wasn’t quite ready to come to terms with what had been done to him. The Winter Soldier had never given himself the freedom to be considered a person, because that made HYDRA’s sins all too real. But when he’d stared at the Sergeant Barnes display, there had been no more denying it: a righteous man had been dragged to hell and had chosen to wallow in apathy instead of fight the injustice. He had to get better, had to reclaim that old identity, if only so that he could start making amends for the atrocities he’d had a hand in._

“I know you’re in there somewhere.”

_Sergeant Barnes deserved better, deserve a legacy that amounted to more than a road map written in blood. He’d fought valiantly for his country, for the safety and freedom of his friends and relatives, so the story couldn’t end with, ‘And then he was brainwashed into committing  treason.’ There had to be more, had to be a recovery and rehabilitation because he wanted to be a person again, wanted to prove that James Barnes was not a dead-eyed assassin._

“Good? That’s... good. It helps to be resolute about not wanting to be a hitman anymore.”

_That voice again! He knew it, somewhere from a place that was forward from where he was standing._

“Pretty sure you mean reminiscing.”

_The young boy who’d turned out not to be a boy at all—sneaky little Emma._

“Little? Not all of us are _‘engineered’_ super-soldiers, _James.”_

_How did she know that? She wasn’t supposed to know that; he’d never told her. Hadn’t wanted her to know about all the blood and the death in his past._

“I’ll grant you, the assassin stuff is news, but I already knew you were a soldier so I kind of figured awful things laid behind you—not exactly a deductive leap there. And your arm was a pretty big giveaway. Also, you realize you’re saying all of this out loud, right?”

He suddenly became aware of his body, a heavy physical weight that tied him to the present. There were several moments of unfocused confusion as his senses came back online—sound and sight and touch rediscovered in a quick and unsettling blast. It was like landing after a badly judged base jump: weightless misery crashing hard into the solid world. And with those senses came the quick realization that Emma was holding onto his arm for dear life. She’d locked around his elbow, using the angle of her shoulder to pin him back. It was a noble effort, but it left his searching fingers mere inches from her unprotected flesh; that might not have presented the same danger as his cybernetic arm, but even the natural one could have dealt her severe damage.

Abruptly feeling sick, he stood, tumbling her to the floor in the process. To her credit, she made no sound, didn’t even protest, but he still felt awful about the action. A part of him wanted to help her up, to wrap himself around her and apologize for everything, but he was shaking and terrified that he might hurt her. Instead he whirled away, pacing the opposite side of the room as he reminded himself, over and over, that HYDRA was no longer in control of his destiny. He wasn’t the Winter Soldier anymore; he’d left that life behind to pick up the mantle of Bucky.

But, _god,_ had it been so simple to fall back in line. He had slipped the Winter Soldier on like a mask, falling back into the mentality so easily it was as if he’d never left. As The Asset he was rational, uncompromising, didn’t have to consider Emma’s fear or emotional well-being, merely her safety. The world was a black and white array, a chain of linear logic that led straight from action to desired outcome. He’d gotten them to relative safety like that, but hadn’t been able to pull his thoughts out of the Soldier once they were there; like mental quicksand, the harder he’d struggled to reemerge, the farther he had fallen.

And yet, for the second time, Emma’s voice had pulled him out. Through the abyssal depths her words had rung clear, forging a safe path out of the darkness for him to follow. She was such an unlikely savior, yet she rescued him time and again. However, Bucky was worried he would unwittingly make her pay for that; twice she’d jumped in without considering the risks and twice he could have maimed her.

An image came to him from the plagued recesses of his mind. Sweet, tiny Emma thrown to the ground, pale limbs bent and broken at unnatural angles, blood oozing from her lips as the light faded from her steely gray eyes.

He dry heaved, bile rising to burn his throat as his body violently reacted to that thought.

Emma looked panicked at his sudden sickness, quickly peeling herself off the ground as she asked, “What’s going on? How can I help?”

“I need a moment,” he bit out around a locked jaw, scuttling further away from her even as his knees wobbled threateningly.

She was unimpressed by his lack of practicality. “Are you sure you don’t need a trashcan? You’re looking a little green over there.”

The vision began to fade, but Bucky was still deeply shaken. What if he snapped? What if he regressed fully? Was his presence any safer for her than HYDRA’s? That thought finally kicked his legs out from under him, sending him to the floor. Propped against the cheap bed, he blurted, “I could have hurt you.”

She actually laughed at that, eating up the distance between them as she replied, “I’m not saying that trying to physically restrain you was my finest moment,” she settled next to him, curling into his side like she belonged there, “but, make no mistake, I am not without means.”

His skin was crawling. For the first time since leaving HYDRA he truly felt like a monster, and he didn’t want her tainted or endangered by being so close. “You saw what I did to myself last time,” he spat out, pointing to his left shoulder, desperate to make her understand, “that could have been you.” He shifted away from her, wanting to gain distance.

But Emma would have none of it. She merely followed his movement, practically draping herself over his side as she snapped, “Okay, I want to make something _very_ clear to you right now, Bucky.” She reached out, gently turning his head to make sure he was paying attention. With her hard gaze drilling into his soul, she told him, “I am _not_ a damsel or some fainting little miss that you valorously have to protect from yourself, so you can _fuck right off_ with that White Knight routine.” Her arm thrust out in front of his face, the sleeve rolled back to reveal one of her mysterious braces. “One flick of the switch and you wouldn’t even be able to touch me.”

“You’re sure?” He’d only ever witnessed their silencing powers, but the idea that those braces could wrap her in a defensive shell was a huge relief.

She nodded. “I could show you right now if it would make you feel better.”

The devices powered on quickly, at first with a little whine and then complete silence. In the space of a heartbeat they were pushed back from each other, an invisible force snapping down around her. He tenuously reached a hand out, but she hadn’t been lying—there was a tactile shield just a few inches out from her body, sturdy and impenetrable.

Part of Bucky was bitter that they even had to explore this option, that he was so out of control of himself that this seemed necessary, but a larger part was just sincerely glad to know she had protection. Once the braces powered down and she settled back into his side, he demanded, “Promise me you’ll use this if the need ever arises.”

She rolled her eyes and gave him a comically snotty look. Then, seriously, she replied, “I might be a glutton for punishment, but I’m not going to put either of us through that. If I think I can’t reach you and you’re completely out of control, you damn well better bet I’m turning the braces on.” She paused, patted him patronizingly on the head, and continued, “I do have a one hundred percent success rate with getting through to you though, so I doubt it will come to that.”

Even though he appreciated the effort, he ignored her joking, simply saying, “Thank you.” But as he laced their fingers together, he had to admit that he wasn’t sure if he was thanking her for the promise or just for staying by his side.

Emma seemed to know what he meant, though. She shrugged and tightened her grip on him, stating, “Well, we’re stuck together now; it would be fairly detrimental if someone got hurt or became alienated.”

“Stuck together, huh?” He tried smiling, but it pulled at his lips unnaturally—he wasn’t quite back to normal just yet. And it wasn’t as if her words really deserved a smile; though she’d meant them lightly, they were still true. They were _absolutely_ stuck together now. His misguided search into Emma’s past had done precisely what he hadn’t wanted—he’d accidentally smoked both of them out and now HYDRA was looking to collect the set. “I’m surprised you’re not running for the hills.”

She gave him a tired smile in return, saying, “I still haven’t fully forgiven you for pulling me out of the tunnels, but since I can’t return that makes you the only recognisable fixture in my life.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky told her honestly. And he was—he was sorry that he’d exposed her to so much danger, sorry that he’d renewed HYDRA’s search for her—but he _wasn’t_ sorry they were out of the tunnels. Life would be harder now, more unforgiving, but at least they had an opportunity to earn back their freedom.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” she sighed, resting her head on his shoulder. “Not the whole ‘being pursued by unknown enemies’ thing, but the rest of it. You kind of mumble-shouted something about willfully miring yourself in apathy, and that’s _exactly_ what I was doing.” For a moment, she simply stared down at her arm braces, self-loathing echoing through her silence. “I never even would have considered the thought of moving forward, of moving on, if not for you. Granted, this really isn’t how I wanted to do it, but it was probably bound to happen sooner or later.”

He moved, wrapping his arm around her shoulders so that he could rest his head upon her own. After this latest episode, he felt astoundingly brittle, unsure of himself or the direction of her thoughts. “It doesn’t bother you that I’m an ex-assassin?”

Emma hummed in the negative, turning a little so that she could partially lay on top of him. In a mumble that spoke volumes about how exhausted she was, she replied, “No, because you very deliberately emphasized ‘ex’. And my hands aren’t exactly clean either, Bucky. What does bother me is not knowing where we go from here. Who were those guys? Why were they after us?”

Now wasn’t really the ideal time to discuss that. They’d been on the run for hours, riding high on adrenaline as their panic spiked. This motel room was their first reprieve from the pervasive fear that they might get caught or separated; they should take advantage of that by resting up for the harder journey ahead. And yet, Bucky knew that she wouldn’t rest if he didn’t broach the subject; that, even if it wasn’t ideal, now was absolutely the time to clear the air.

Bracing himself, he asked, “What do you know about HYDRA?”

She’d heard him say that word a couple of times, but now it caused her to flinch. There was a sudden tension that seized her muscles, but she didn’t respond.

“I see a lot of my own struggles in you, Emma,” he carried on, hoping that pushing the subject now wasn’t a mistake, “and I can’t help but wonder if we aren’t fighting the same fight.”

“I’m not fighting at all,” she rallied, pulling away from him slightly. “If anything, I think I have skillfully proven that I’m just bobbing along with the currents.”

He wouldn’t be deterred by her glib words. It was time they brought this matter to a head. “You don’t remember who you are, do you?”

She flinched again, pulling into herself defensively. “Shut—”

But he cut her off. “You get deja vu a lot, as if your body recalls something familiar, maybe you even get a quick flash of something that might have been a memory, but you can’t seem to recall the important stuff.”

“ _Please don’t,_ ” she begged, voice small.

He carried on as though she hadn’t spoken. “Like names, places you’ve been, or why you were hiding down in those tunnels to begin with.”

Emma exploded, vibrating against him as she shouted, _“I know what I did!”_ She took a deep breath, gulping air before quietly continuing, “You’re right, there are a lot of things I don’t remember, but I do know why I’m on the run.”

“What are you hiding from, Emma? What did you do?”

“I think…” She paused, mouth working soundlessly, but then she shook her head and restarted, “No, I _know_ I was a scientist, obsessed with studying sound waves and learning how to manipulate resonance frequencies to produce various results.”

He had been right then, she was a scientist. Wonderingly, he replied, “You created those arm braces.”

Another flinch, her expression becoming pained. “And something else, something _awful,_ Bucky.” From the depths of her pockets, she pulled out three little spheres. They were smooth and metallic, diameters no wider than a silver dollar each, peculiar grooves beveling a single hemisphere. “Localized Percussive Bombardment, or LPB for short.”

“What do they do?” He asked, metal hand reaching out to touch one.

“Anything from instant human pâté to leveling an entire city in the blink of an eye,” she explained, looking relieved when he instantly withdrew his fingers. In a plaintive tone, she explained their origins, “I didn’t want to take my research in this direction, I was coerced by my superiors, and I still remember being horror-stricken when I saw the results tested. So I red flagged the project over ethical concerns. But the people I worked for didn’t like that; they did something to make me forget but it didn’t work right. Not completely. When I came to, I stole the devices and I ran.”

“From where?”

She hid the spheres away, a frown pulling at her lips as she tried to remember. Eventually, she just shook her head and replied, “I don’t know. It was just some building.”

Emma had once indicated that she was trying to protect someone. At the time he’d assumed she’d meant a colleague or perhaps a family member; now he knew she’d been trying to protect _everyone._ She had been taken advantage of, her mental acuity directed toward a project that would have made even Dr. Zola proud. He might have worried what that said about her if her response had been any different. But ultimately, Emma was kindhearted—she’d understood the potential impact of what she’d been forced to create and had sacrificed her own life in order to protect the world at large. It was astoundingly selfless, and it confirmed what he’d always suspected—they _were_ fighting the same fight.

Bucky drew her closer and began to explain their situation. “The people after us are members of HYDRA, a scientifically driven cult that splintered off the Nazi party back during World War II. They’ve wormed their way so deep into the American and European political systems that millions of honest people have no idea they’re directly furthering HYDRA’s cause. Those employers that you’re running from are almost certainly HYDRA or HYDRA controlled.”

She didn’t even question how strange the story sounded, simply asked, “And these are the people you’re running from too?”

“Which is the greatest injustice I could suffer since I dedicated my life to stamping them out,” he nodded, bitterness creeping into his heart.

“So how do we fight them? You make it sound like they’re everywhere.”

“They are,” he sighed, realizing how futile that made their struggle sound, “but if we plan things right, we’ll be fine. We are going to survive this, Emma.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to imagine that seedy motel clerk is actually Loki just being a monumental asshole to everyone who rolls through that town. The idea amuses me way more than it should.
> 
> So I hate to do it, but this is probably going to be the only update this week. There's family visiting right now, and having school-aged girls in the house is not conducive to writing or editing. Hopefully the fact that this is the longest chapter yet softens that blow a bit. Regularly scheduled updates will resume in a week.
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, and extra big thanks to BubbleBakerPenguinPie, Monokhrome, Anon, EmpressEmmie, jjgoodhope, and honeyheart.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For all his meticulous organization, Bucky is apparently a fan of free-form planning. Emma, decidedly, is not.

After their high emotions had finally drained enough to leave them both feeling exhausted, they’d gotten up off the floor. A quickly reached consensus had Emma and Bucky stripping the questionable bedsheets off the fairly decent mattress, and then they slept, curled into each other like it was just second nature. Morning dawned far too early, especially considering the late night they’d struggled through, but their overall situation was far too tenuous to allow them the luxury of sleeping in. Instead, as the golden fingers of dawn peeked through the grimy window, they both sat bleary-eyed, trying to choke down the ancient coffee. She was about ninety percent certain it was actually boiled topsoil, but it still helped chase the weariness away.

As she drank, Emma was desperately trying to compartmentalize. There were about a dozen different conversations that she and Bucky needed to have before they could really understand where they stood with each other—like who the hell Sergeant Barnes was to have his own _Smithsonian_ display or how they were going to deal with the looming danger of her LPB-spheres—but that all would have to wait. Right now they had to focus on their short-term plan, had to buckle down so that they could come up with a survival strategy.

Plucking up her courage and wanting to get things in motion, she asked, “What’s the agenda for today?”

Bucky shot her a barely conscious glare over the lip of his mug. His eyes were red-rimmed and dark shadowed—the first time she’d every really seen him look tired—and it was almost a comically huge difference from the lively company he usually provided. In a voice that was equal parts gravel and petulance, he replied, “What makes you think there is one?”

Bucky was apparently not a morning person, and that was a little shocking. But then, for as much time as they’d spent together, had she ever actually seen him sleep? Or was this merely the result of their circumstances? Underground, it had been easiest to catch naps for a handful of hours, not unlike what they’d done last night, but most of those naps hadn’t been preceded by wildly fleeing the city. Or rude night clerks. Or flashbacks and their subsequent after effects. Even so, the idea that this was just Bucky’s normal mood upon awakening was pretty amusing to her. How had he ever survived the army? Her cheery flirt had turned into a sourpuss just because it was early!

“I’m a novice at this whole ‘living on the run thing’,” she smiled brightly, fakely, a part of her sadistically delighted at the idea of irritating his morning gloom, “and the only way I’m keeping my panic at bay is by assuming that you have some kind of plan.”

He took another pull from his coffee and shrugged. “We keep moving.”

“That’s it?” Emma raised a brow at him, supremely unimpressed. “That’s your grand scheme?”

The barest hint of a smile twitched up the corners of his lips. “Can’t catch what you can’t find.”

“While that logic is irrefutable,” she replied, “I was kind of hoping for something a little more fleshed out.”

“We’ll stock up on some necessities and then head out of town,” Bucky told her, a little more awake although still clearly not in the mood to talk yet.

But she pushed anyhow. “To where?”

“It doesn’t really matter,” he shrugged again, finally setting his mug down. “We’ll need to travel crooked for a few days, just meander all over the place to make sure we’re not bein' followed.”

Please, god, _not_ another freight train! Emma would admit that she was totally out of her depth, but the idea of crawling into another shipping car—where the air was stifled and cramped and there was nothing to do for literal hours on end—had her gnashing her teeth. There had to be a better way to travel that still offered them the opportunity to slip by undetected. Couldn’t they just steal a car and drive off to… to where ever it was that they were ultimately going? Where ever the hell _that_ was, which she had the distinct impression he hadn’t decided yet. She honestly hadn’t expected such a free-form plan from someone as seemingly organized as him.

Needling further, she pressed, “And then?”

“Then we need to make a decision about which of our problems to tackle first.” He said it so matter of factly, like they had a bullet-point checklist that they could just cross items off of as issues were resolved.

“What about that friend you said you were going to find?” It felt like ages since they’d had that conversation, but she still remembered it. She had a pretty deep suspicion that the safe address he’d shoved into her hands during the library incident had been for this nebulous acquaintance of his.

“He’s always an option,” Bucky nodded, “but his help isn’t guaranteed and I don’t really know what will happen when we come face to face.” Which was a little strange. Was this guy his friend or not? Then again, given Bucky’s mental state, perhaps even he didn’t know their exact relationship. It certainly made it harder to trust any outside source, even one that might potentially be an ally. “Besides, we might have difficulty contactin' him since his last known location was DC, which I’d like for us to avoid at all costs.”

After that they dropped the subject of their long-term strategy, seeing as the conversation was pretty much just going in circles—Emma wanted a more concrete plan and he did not have one to give her—so there wasn’t much point in pressing further.

For several moments there was a quiet lull as they both finished their delicious cup o’ dirt, but once the mugs were drained they began bracing themselves for the day ahead. Aside from their respective outerwear, there wasn’t much around the motel room to pick back up so they were ready to go in minutes. Together they hit the slushy streets—no sense in checking out since they’d paid in advance—and did their best to look like regular travelers. Fitting in without a car was a little tough but they managed, wandering through the tiny town at a lazy pace.

The advanced truck stop/pitiful hamlet couldn’t have been more than a couple blocks wide, so by the time they had explored each end twice over, Emma’s patience was more or less shot. “What are we doing?”

Bucky grinned at her tone, but kept scanning the horizon. “We need to pick out a department store—something big but not huge, preferably at least a decade old and a few years past its prime.”

She raised a brow. “That’s oddly specific.”

“An older, more struggling store is gonna have outdated security,” he explained, guiding them toward what could generously be called the rougher part of town. “There will still be cameras but, if we’re lucky, they’ll be connected to an analogue system. Or, at the very least, the resolution will be so grainy that no one would be able to identify us for sure.”

She hadn’t even thought about security cameras, let alone digitally connected systems. In fact, Emma was still largely hung up on the fact that she didn’t have a clue what they were doing. Life in the tunnels might have been hellish, but at least it had been predictable. “What kind of supplies are we looking for here? Won’t shopping bags just get in the way of our newly nomadic lifestyle?”

“It never hurts to have food and water on hand,” Bucky told her, which was unnecessary considering how they had met. “We should probably pick up some hiking gear while we’re at it. And we’ll have to ditch clothes again; it’s important right now to change our appearances as much as possible.”

Hiking gear? Vague disguises? When had her life devolved into a 1950’s espionage-thriller? And where had Bucky learned any of this in the first place? Of course, that was a terrible question to ask because it was part of those conversations they were both putting off. She knew exactly where he’d learned these skills—at the hands of his captors as they slowly turned him into an assassin. Only, she was trying very hard not to deal with that little tidbit just now since it brought up way too many moral questions. Like, was it wrong to still enjoy his company even after he’d heavily implied that he’d once been a cold-blooded killer? And she couldn’t broach that right now, because it wasn’t high on the list of priorities—moral and emotional explorations would have to come later, after she knew they were safe.

“Now, you see,” she finally replied, shaking off her heavy thoughts, “it’s decisive statements like this that make me think you do have a plan and you’re just not sharing it with me.”

He grinned widely and she had a sneaking suspicion that this was his payback for irritating him while he was still half-asleep. However, after a few moments, he relented, “We need to cloud our trail right now—stop and start in a lot of different places, set up false leads anywhere we can—but ultimately the best way to disappear is to leave civilization entirely.”

“We’re going on a camping trip?” She asked disbelievingly although, deep down, she wasn’t opposed to the idea. Getting off the grid was exactly her speed—how different could it be from living underground?—but it seemed like the opposite of what he had said they should do.

“Eventually,” Bucky nodded. “Straight up the Appalachians and into the Adirondacks.” His scanning gaze finally fell on a store in the distance; he must have decided it met his specifications because he began to lead them toward it.

Emma wanted to dig her heels in at the bombshell he’d dropped; it was so much more _complicated_ than just camping. “You want to _hike_ up the East Coast?” In the winter, no less! The man was insane.

He held a hand up placatingly and tried to soothe, “Just until we figure out what we’re really doin’. But first we have to venture out into public, so here.” His hand delved into the depths of his coat, surreptitiously drawing out a small-caliber handgun that he then tried to give to her.

Her eyes darted wildly, but the streets were empty at this early hour. “That is a _gun,_ ” she whispered, dumbfounded.

“And it’s loaded,” he replied seriously, holding the handle out toward her again, “so don’t switch off the safety unless you have to.”

Her hands jumped into her pockets of their own volition and she firmly bit out, “I don’t want it.”

“Why?” He seemed genuinely confused at her refusal. “Have you never used one before?”

“I know how to shoot, if that’s what you’re asking,” she murmured, eyes darting around some more. Having a gun out in public was just asking for trouble. “What I meant was, don’t _you_ need it?”

Bucky shrugged, “I have a knife.” Helpfully demonstrating, his left hand was suddenly holding a thin but sturdy looking blade.

The man was a walking arsenal, and she wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Mostly she was just nervous that someone might see them and think they were preparing to rob the department store. She gave the small blade another glance as he slipped it back into its hiding place and couldn’t help but ask, “That’s kind of a close-quarters weapon, don’t you think?”

“Exactly. I’m comfortable with hand to hand; I want you to have the ranged weapon so that I know you’ve got the added defense of distance.”

“That’s sweet, in a weird kind of way,” Emma replied. And it was—he was willing to get his hands dirty, to fight in the absolute thick of it just so that she could have the safety of firepower. However, it was also really distressing because staring at that gun brought up all sorts of memories about the LPB-sphere tests that she didn’t want to deal with just now. “But I’m fairly certain I’m only going to hurt myself with it. Besides, I don’t need a weapon when I have the braces.”

Bucky shook his head, frowning at her as he began to argue logistics, “Those aren’t gonna help you if you’re already surrounded, sweetheart; all the braces are gonna do is make your capture _really_ quiet.” He paused, gave her a considering look, and appeared briefly sympathetic. “Is this a moral issue? Because I thought about askin’ if you could use those spheres, but I figured it would be in poor taste.”

It really would have been; she might have been tempted to deck him if he’d actually brought that up. And, while her issues with the spheres were one hundred percent morally driven, this was something else entirely—it was a matter of practicality. So she shrugged and assured him, “If someone is coming after us, I’m not going to waste time measuring the pros and cons of using a gun; I just think you’ve probably got the better aim. I mean, you were trained to use these; I just took a safety course.” A safety course that she could _barely_ even remember, at that. “The odds are way more likely that I would shoot you, myself, or some innocent bystander rather than an attacker.”

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes in frustration. “Look, it’s not likely that HYDRA would have picked up our trail so quickly—we’ve probably got another twelve to twenty-four hours before they even start tracin’ the freight lines this far out—so it’s unlikely you’re gonna have to use the gun at all. I just wanna know that you’re protected, all right?”

“That’s what you’re for,” she pointed out. “I’m a scientist, not a warrior.”

She left it at that, but he still managed to slip the loaded weapon into her pocket before they entered the store.

* * *

Ralby’s Outfitters was exactly what Bucky had hoped for: a local franchise that was struggling to compete against more modern super-conglomerates. In its heyday, it had probably been quite the thing, all polished wood and friendly service, but now it was just this side of decrepit. The departments had slowly crept into each other, bleeding over as the store added goods and services that an outfitter really had no business offering—what had probably once been mostly gentlemen’s attire and cigars was now everything from sectional sofas to baby formula.

Weary-eyed night-shift employees were clocking out as the guard changed and, surprisingly, there were actually a few customers already ambling about the place. Which was just as well, really—it would be easier for them to remain less memorable if there were other distractions in the store. Taking a cart, he began to peruse the aisles, paying special attention to camping gear and prepackaged foods. The moment felt strangely mundane—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a store to do anything other than track a mark—and he felt self-conscious. Could others tell how uncomfortable he was, how out of practice?

Emma ambled along beside him, nervous energy rolling off her in waves. It was hard to say what was bothering her more though, the gun in her pocket or their general situation. Trying to mask her emotions, she began to talk. “So how do you get Bucky out of James?”

It was strange to hear his given name falling from her lips. He wasn’t sure how much of his last episode had been spoken aloud and he knew they would have to talk about it eventually. Now was probably not the best time to lay everything out on the table, but he didn’t mind discussing this little bit. So Bucky glanced at her and smiled lightly, replying, “You do not.”

She frowned and looked away, suddenly finding a package of dehydrated potatoes intensely fascinating. “You fed me a _fake_ name?”

“No,” he shook his head. “Bucky is short for Buchanan, which is my middle name.”

Her gaze whipped back around, eyes wide. “ _Ouch_ ,” she laughed with a fake wince. “I hate to tell you this, Bucky, but I think your parents might have _hated_ you.”

He gave her a playfully dirt look and argued, “Or they were outstandingly patriotic.”

“Who would name their kid after President Buchanan?” She asked patronisingly. “And why make the nickname out of the middle name? Shouldn’t you have been a Jim or a Jamie?”

He sincerely hoped she didn’t start calling him either of those. “Isn’t Jamie a girl’s name?”

Emma merely shrugged and moseyed further up the aisle. “It’s unisex.”

“And anyway, you’re one to talk.” Bucky tried to _stop_ his mouth but, as he’d long suspected, it had a mind of its own. “What kind of name is Emma?”

“A totally normal one, _Buchanan_ ,” she teased back, laughing quietly under her breath.

It was nice to see that they’d gotten their equilibrium back. He’d had a moment this morning—somewhere after his brain had finally clicked on, but before he’d processed the taste of what could only _theoretically_ have been coffee—that he’d worried about Emma’s all-business questions. Not the fact that she’d had questions, of course, because anyone in her position would have. No, he’d worried that it had been another one of her attempts to emotionally distance herself. Part of him had hoped that they were beyond her natural inclination to withdraw, but that had been before she knew what he truly was. Who wouldn’t pull away from a semi-cybernetic, former killing machine? But now it seemed like they were back on track and that was a relief. The coming days were going to be hard enough on the both of them without adding the strain of alienation to the mix. Eventually they would have to explore the information that he’d unwittingly shared and decide how that changed the shape of their relationship, but it was nice to see that she was already willing to take so much in stride.

She interrupted his thoughts, eyeing him suspiciously as he added shampoo to their cart. “Since when were cosmetics considered necessities?”

Bucky hated her definition of necessity, though he understood why she had such rigid boundaries. Having been homeless for so long, she took the term literally—if she could survive without it, then it wasn’t necessary. But they were transitioning now, and the day would soon come when they weren’t homeless anymore; it would make that shift less shocking all around if they both made an effort to start being more civilized immediately. Besides, HYDRA was looking for two hobos, so that was exactly what they couldn’t afford to look like.

“Blending in is one'a our top priorities,” he explained, carefully selecting a few more helpful items. “No one’s gonna glance twice at us if we look just like everybody else.”

“Fair point,” she conceded, eyes zeroing in on some choice labels, “but this is going to be pricey.”

He shrugged. Money was honestly the last thing on his mind at any given moment; it only held value to him right now because he didn’t want to stir up any attention so soon after being discovered. If he’d had a guarantee that HYDRA would never catch wind of it, he’d be sticking this place up and taking everything the two of them could carry. “I was skimmin' the crowds as we fled DC,” he replied, thinking of the little stash in his breast-pocket—which would have been considerably heftier if not for that sleazy night clerk. “There should be just enough left to cover this lot.”

Emma gave a few fellow patrons a considering glance and asked him, “Do you want me to go shore up the reserve?”

“Not right now,” he shook his head. Frankly, he didn’t like the idea of her putting herself in danger like that, didn’t like the thought of her having to stoop so low. She was a masterful pickpocket, he knew that, but it was bothersome how necessary stealing could be to their survival. “Not until after we put these grooming products to good use.”

“Which we will do where, exactly? I’d rather not go back to that motel, if it’s all the same to you.”

“No,” Bucky agreed, “I figured we could steal a car and find an out of the way rest-stop or something. It won’t be ideal, but we really can’t afford to be choosy just now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't tell any of you how much I really wanted to post last Friday; it seemed wrong not to, even with a house full of chaos. My chapter buffer is starting to dwindle though; I apparently need to write like the wind for the next few days or the posts are going to catch up with me.
> 
> Heaps of thanks to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, particularly to BubbleBakerPenguinPie, PrimaDea, aorangeinboston, and jjgoodhope for leaving comments. Also thank you to everyone who left holiday well-wishes and a (belated) Happy Easter to you all as well.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a grand day of revelations for everyone.

Emma felt like a live wire as she waited for Bucky—buzzing with far too much energy, unable to ground herself—but it was hard not to be nervous. They had exited Ralby’s with a considerable amount of baggage in tow when he’d turned to her and told her to stay put. Then he’d loped off, out of view, leaving her to dance around the curb in agitation. They hadn’t been separated since the library—had that really just been yesterday?— and she felt his absence now the way she might feel the loss of her own hand. It was becoming increasingly harder to remember how often they’d been apart early in their relationship. Locked as she was in survival mode, his nonattendance put her in danger—not that she couldn’t handle it, but their chances of remaining intact were better when they were both present.

Because she knew now that he couldn’t be alone. Without an anchor to stabilize his actions, Bucky fell too easily into the recesses of his own mind. There were dark things locked within her lighthearted companion, a shadowy evil that threatened to draw him back into a world he was desperately trying to escape. He needed her, needed reasons not to draw upon that inner well of mechanical apathy. She was only too happy to provide, because the truth was that she’d rather see him dead than have him replaced by that hollow-eyed stranger. A part of her might have felt bad about that sentiment if not for the fact that she was positive he shared it. He’d said as much, after all, during his curious declarations about Sergeant Barnes.

Strange, though, how little she now understood she knew about him. For all their closeness, for all their mounting intimacy, she hardly knew anything about his past—and the little parts she did know painted a disturbing picture. Although she supposed he probably felt the same way about her.

Emma’s thoughts were interrupted as Bucky pulled up in a black sedan. It was neither new nor old, good nor bad—exactly the sort of vehicle that a middle American, middle manager would drive. Inconspicuous, excellent camouflage. They loaded their supplies in quickly and drove off, though where to she had no idea.

For several short hours they traveled amiably, crossing state borders. By midday, Bucky started scoping out neighborhoods. When she asked what he was looking for, he replied, “Somewhere that gives off the impression that the owners are on vacation.”

“I thought we were going to find a rest stop?”

He shook his head. “Cleaning off the pall of living underground is going to be easier if we have access to a tub or a shower.”

Couldn’t argue with that, although the idea of breaking into someone’s home didn’t sit well with Emma. Still, desperate situations called for desperate measures.

They eventually found the perfect house. It was settled back on a country road, not readily visible from the street and had no immediate neighbors to look on in curiosity. The long driveway was littered with newspapers, the mailbox stuffed to bursting, and the inside of the house was still and dark. Either the residents were on an extended trip or someone had died.

Bucky slid from the car, playing with the lock on the backdoor for only a moment before heading into the house. He was gone for several nerve-wracking minutes, but when he reemerged he seemed at ease.

“All clear,” he told her, starting to gather their supplies to take inside.

Emma hefted a few bags and trailed behind him. The inside of the house was just as cold and dark as it had promised to be. It was a smallish place—probably owned by a pair of retirees who had been smart enough to escape the winter chill—and might have looked inviting if not for the absolute stillness. They were _intruding,_ and it felt somehow worse than any crime they’d committed to date.

Her mind changed completely when they found the bathroom. It wasn’t large—there was barely enough room for the both of them to fit inside unless someone chose to stand in the tub—but it _was_ still awe inspiring. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a proper bathroom, seedy motel not withstanding. Though she was a reluctant participant in their adventure, the prospect of finally being clean for once made up for some of their hardships; this was in service of better disguising themselves, but it also felt a bit like a reward.

Seeming to understand her sudden eagerness, Bucky handed her a towel and a collection of soaps and shampoos then left the bathroom. He stayed just outside the open door, diligently organizing the rest of their supplies into two huge camping packs—hardly more than a few feet away, and she was strangely grateful for that. Privacy had somehow become nonexistent between them. She might have cringed a little at the idea of being fully nude in front of him for the first time, but the siren song of the shower made it much too hard to care.

The water took a long time to warm up, but when it finally did she let out a low moan. She heard him snort at that, followed quickly by a full, throaty laugh at her expense, but she was beyond modesty at that point. Nothing could stop her from enjoying the sweet power of running water. For several long minutes she simply enjoyed the hot blast, but eventually her attention turned to her own body.

It had been a long time since Emma had really considered her own limbs. She hadn’t been completely naked in _years,_ so there had been no reason to dwell on physical assets. Filth was her first impression—dirt caked along every fold and crevice, painting her a muddy brown. And while that grime was slowly swirling down the drain, it was going to take a lot of effort to reveal the person she’d once been. She had a feeling that there wasn’t going to be any hot water left for poor Bucky by the time she was finished.

Soaping up a washcloth, she set to task. Her mind wandered as she worked in meticulous strokes, eventually coming around to settle on their current transportation. Unable to set the thought aside, she raised her voice over the cascading water and asked, “Isn’t driving around in a stolen car just asking for trouble?”

The dim shape of Bucky moved behind her foggy shower curtain, perhaps turning around to face her. “Drug dealer’s car,” the shrug was apparent in his voice. “He’s not gonna report the theft since goin’ to the police would draw too much attention to his own operations.”

“A _drug_ _dealer’s_ car? _Fantastic,_ ” Emma drawled sarcastically. Was it too much to ask for him to do something by halves? “Because, clearly, things weren’t difficult enough with just the mysterious Nazi-cult after us.”

But he just shook his head—probably—and reassured her, “Don’t worry, we’re not goin’ back to it for long. As soon as we finish cleanin’ up we’ll need to start scoping out a different vehicle.”

“I shudder to think how many times you’ve done this before.” He said it all so matter of factly, like it was simply routine

“If it makes you feel any better,” he teased lightly, refusing to let them devolve into melancholy again, “I’ve never had this conversation with anyone as _pretty_ as you.”

She might have blushed at that if she hadn’t already been turning pink from the water. “That would sound so much more sincere if it weren’t being said to a homeless woman.”

There was a shapeless noise of disagreement before he shot back with, “Temporarily without accommodations.”

“What?”

He stopped whatever he was doing, or perhaps finished it, and stepped lightly into the bathroom. Leaning against the sink, he explained, “It does you no service to continue thinkin’ about yourself as homeless. You need to learn how to visualize your goals, Emma.”

It felt perverse that he should be the one giving the pep talk. She snorted, glibly returning, “Thank you, Enlightened Guru Bucky! Any more pearls of wisdom you’d like to impart?”

“You’re gonna be your own worst enemy when it comes time to acclimate,” Bucky warned her, gesturing vaguely. “If you allow your thoughts to stagnate, you will never feel at ease unless you’re continuin' the homeless lifestyle. Don’t you want _more_ than that?”

Of course she did, but years of desperation had beaten the starry-eyed naivety out of her. Aspirations could be poisonous. Until she was standing firmly planted in a new life, Emma wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to think of herself as anything other than homeless. What else could she be? Certainly not a scientist anymore. And yet… could she be one again? Was it possible to reclaim that? Her close-minded method of thinking tended to cut her off from possibilities that Bucky would readily encourage her to embrace. But it wasn’t as if she could just flip a switch and start seeing the world as he did.

“I’m having trouble wrapping my brain around this whole _hoping_ thing,” she admitted. “I’ve never been allowed to do it before.”

“Me neither,” he confided, tone taking on a teasing edge again, “yet one of us is clearly pullin’ ahead and the other is… well, let’s just say she’s _failing miserably.”_

Emma laughed and began working on the mess of her hair. “Since when was positive thinking a competition?”

“Since always,” he replied, clearly affronted she would think otherwise. “You gonna keep up, or do I have to drag you into happiness?”

Kicking and screaming into an easier life? Could you even do that to someone? “There’s something supremely wrong with you.”

He hummed again, a happy sound that broadcast his wide grin. “Steve always told me that my mom must’a dropped me on my head a lot as a baby.” The was a long pause then, wonderingly, _“Huh.”_

She raised a brow at that even though he couldn’t see it. “First of all, Steve sounds amazing.” She actually wanted to meet him now, especially if he usually gave Bucky a hard time. “Second, what’s with the ‘huh’?”

“I find it almost insulting that you’ve forgotten I’m an amnesiac.”

“I’m not in your head, Bucky,” Emma felt obliged to point out. “I have no idea what you do and don’t remember.”

“Generally, not Steve,” he replied. There was a distant quality to his voice, like he was trying very hard to pursue whatever memory had just popped up.

She didn’t want to interrupt his thoughts, but that little tidbit only confused her. “Then why is the plan ultimately to go to him?”

“Who better to help you fight _Nazis_ than _Captain America?”_

The Earth tilted below Emma and she felt suddenly, desperately heartbroken. Bucky had seemed so lucid, so in command that she’d never considered the possibility that he might genuinely be sick. And she really wanted to approach that subject delicately, but shock made her blurt out, “Are you _kidding_ me? Captain America’s been _dead_ for like _seventy years!”_

“Oh _doll,”_ Bucky gasped, like _he_ pitied _her,_ “you’ve been livin’ under a rock for far too long! It’s a brave new world out there—Steve Rogers is alive, superpowers and super-tech are croppin’ up left and right, and aliens not only exist but wanna take over New York, London, and a little dive in New Mexico for some reason.”

Her mouth dropped open and flapped around soundlessly for several seconds. One of them was completely out of touch, and she had a sinking feeling that it might not be him. She _had_ been off the grid for a very long time. “Setting aside almost all of that—because, seriously, I can’t deal with it just now—let’s get back to the matter of you and Captain America, the World War II hero that you seem to have personal memories about.”

“I’m shaky on the exact details,” he shrugged lightly, though there was a troubled note in his words, “but I do know that we were friends.”

A not-dead, but also not historically present superhero who was pushing close to his first centennial friends with Bucky, who couldn’t be older than thirty? It didn’t make any sense. “You really _were_ dropped on your head as a baby.”

“It’s true.”

Emma peeled back the shower curtain, popping her head around as she demanded, “How?” As the question fled her, she briefly remembered the nightmare she’d had—him, frozen in an futuristic cryotube. But that couldn’t have been real. Could it?

He met her glare with an easy expression. For the briefest second, a shadow crossed his face, as though he debated what to tell her, but it was there and gone in the blink of an eye. Gesturing restlessly, he told her, “We’re not gettin’ into the thick of it, because we really do not have time right now, so let’s just leave it at this: Steve'n I grew up together.”

“Hm,” she hummed. The water was cooling, running down her back in chilly droplets, but she barely noticed. If she had thought the assassin thing had been a revelation, it was nothing compared to this. If _this_ was actually true, that is. “I always knew you were strange, but I never pegged you for delusional.”

Bucky frowned at her disbelief, pulling something out of his back pocket to show her. As he tilted the scrap of paper closer, she realized it was a photo. The entire paged looked like it had been xeroxed out of a history book, a grainy photograph dominating the text. There were several recognizable faces depicted there, and he gleefully pointed to one of them, declaring, “Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, childhood friend of Captain Steve Rogers. Look at that guy and tell me that we aren’t the same person, I _dare_ you.”

She stared, squinted her eyes, turned her head left and right, but there was no denying it. The hair was different, beard nonexistent, expression somewhat more carefree, but it was definitely Bucky, standing amidst the ragtag comrades of the 107th.

_“Holy crap,”_ Emma breathed out on a sigh.

“Told you,” he grinned smugly.

“No, seriously,” she held out a hand to cut off his gloating. “Either this is an excellent forgery or you’re a ninety-someting year old war veteran—a _Howling Commando!”_ The hand flew up to her temple, trying to process what she was being told. “I need a moment to take this in.”

He nodded in sympathy. “I’d find this amusing if my own reaction had been all that different.”

Her hand dropped in favor of pointing at him accusingly. “You realize this means I have to cut your hair, right? And you’re going to have to shave.”

His eyes widened and he frowned, looking lost. “Exactly how do those two thoughts follow each other?”

“There is no way we are meeting _Captain America_ while looking like a pair of _bums._ I refuse,” Emma nearly snarled at him. Then calmer, more seriously replied, “Besides, if this is you—and it _really_ looks like it is—it might help you reconnect to that past if you stopped looking like whoever you’ve been lately.” After a considering moment, she renewed her vigorous finger pointing and declared, “Also, we are discussing everything at painful length the minute we’re in the clear, you got me?”

He gave her a mocking salute as she returned to her now cold shower. “Yes ma’am.”

* * *

Bucky tried very hard not ogle Emma as she stepped out of the shower, but it was a battle he was destined to lose. She was putting on quite the show bending, twisting, and rolling as she toweled off. Sleek, wet flesh glimmered in the humid air of the bathroom and he inevitably felt his gaze drawn to the pretty contours of her body. If he’d thought her pale before, it was nothing compared to now. Free of grime she was milky white, like the fresh cream of lilies, and he idly wondered if she would turn golden in the heat of summer. Over the too thin ridges of her chest her breasts rode high and perky, somewhat small when compared to the conversely generous flare of her hips. She was lightly muscled in places, predominantly the legs, and free of glaring blemishes until one reached the arms.

Her slender arms had been too long encased in those braces. The unforgiving metal had scraped and warped her skin, creating pressure scarring that might never heal. She seemed untroubled by the marks, and he found it distressing that she should be so unconcerned at what he saw as mutilation. But then, Emma was dutiful in place of vain—she wore her braces for a reason that she must have long since come to terms with. He wouldn’t stop her, even though the sight of their damage made him grit his teeth, but he had an idea of how to prevent further injury.

However, that would have to wait. For now, it was his turn to shower. Images of her milky flesh danced through his mind, testing his self-control, making him grateful that she hadn’t left him any hot water. The icy drum of the shower tempered his physical reaction, but it was difficult to keep a level head when he knew she was just to the other side of the flimsy plastic curtain. He was _hungry_ for her, lusting after the sweet and soft touches they’d been denied over the last day or two, desperate to explore the sultry passion that could ignite between them.

But they were treading through an ever-shifting landscape—learning more about their situation and each other—and a part of him, perhaps a deeply old-fashioned part, did not want to take that monumental step until he knew where they stood with each other. Bucky wasn’t about to indulge his carnal side at the expense of the long-term. He had a feeling it would break his heart if they truly became lovers only for her to start flinching at the sight of him once she understood the full magnitude of his past. Then again, he had a feeling that scenario might break his heart even if they _didn’t_ have sex. He was so wrapped up in Emma that it was hard to picture his life without her. If he’d had friends to talk to, he was certain he’d be sappily declaring to them, ‘She’s the _one.’_

The magnitude of that truth hit him full force, his chest clenching tightly. _She was The One._ He loved her, loved the way they fit together, couldn’t stand the thought of not being by her side. And maybe that wasn’t a fair assessment since she was the only person he’d connected with in what had to be months, but it didn’t change the truth. He loved her; did she love him?

Emma was frequently standoffish, but in her own way she was certainly affectionate. And she’d opened up a lot since they had first met—which was quite the testament, considering how much isolation she’d fortified herself with. She enjoyed talking with him, always wanted to lend a helping hand, and there was no denying that she felt the physical pull between them. If he had to hazard a guess he would say that she was intrigued and committed to a certain extent, but he wasn’t sure if it was love. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if she would allow herself to fall that deeply into another person—her walls were built high and it seemed as if she was only now starting to understand just how deeply she’d cut herself off.

Bucky liked to think that he was a patient guy, that he knew the value of supporting someone where others might carelessly push. But what was he supposed to do when realizing that the woman he loved might not love him back? Some long forgotten part of him was running through date scenarios—flowers, picnics, movies, the classic wine and dine—insisting that all he had to do was sweep her off her feet. He wanted to do that for her— _god,_ nothing seemed more appealing right now than the idea of romancing her properly!—but their situation would hardly allow it. Nazi hit-squads were kind of hard to plan around; he had a feeling they wouldn’t be overly impressed if they found the Winter Soldier canoodling with their missing scientist in some little Italian bistro.

She deserved his attention though, deserved all the affection that he wanted to shower her with; more than ever, he wanted to find Steve Rogers, if only so that they might have the stability he could provide. However, that thought was hedging into impatient territory. Bucky still wasn’t sure if he was ready to face Steve yet, and a cynical part of him wondered if he ever would be. He remembered precious little of their lives together. Only small fractured pieces had floated up through the hazy blankness of the past, and he wasn’t sure if that would be enough to keep him from reverting. It was one of his greatest fears just now, that he would work up the courage to find Steve only to fall back into the Winter Soldier at the sight of his last mission objective. Until he felt a little more steady, he wanted to delay that meeting.

And yet, Emma would suffer for it. Every hour, every day that they were on the run she was in danger of being taken by HYDRA. Best case scenario, she would be forced to carry on Dr. Zola’s legacy by creating devastating weapons; worst case scenario, they would torture and then kill her. The thought of her, the precious kindhearted woman that he loved, abused or snuffed out by the insane cult was enough to stop his heart. Was his delay of the inevitable putting a seal on her fate?

Emma interrupted his quickly darkening thoughts, asking “You all right in there?” The frown in her voice was evident and her murky shape beyond the curtain seemed to be turned toward him.

Having been so deeply entrenched in his musings he was caught off guard, an inarticulate, “Wha’?” falling from his lips.

“Just making sure you hadn’t somehow passed out in an upright position,” she explained lightly, turning back to whatever she was doing. “You went deathly still for a few minutes.”

“I’m fine,” he shook his head and returned to the task of getting clean. “Just considering our options.”

“Do we _have_ options?” She sounded so disbelieving! It might have been offensive if it hadn’t been justified.

“Not as such, no,” he confirmed. “Gettin’ off the grid is our best bet right now.”

She was oddly at peace with that answer. Her years underground probably made their upcoming trip seem like familiar territory to her, so he was a little surprised when she asked, “And how long do we have to stay off the grid?”

“Not sure. Could be days or weeks,” Bucky shrugged. He knew she was frustrated with his non-answers; the scientist buried deep within her clearly wanted all the details, but he didn’t have any to give. Not ones he wanted to share, anyway.

A little haughtily, she returned with, “What _exactly_ are you waiting for?”

That was a good question. What _was_ he waiting for? It was easy to say something like remembrance or clarity, but the truth of it ran deeper. He was waiting for some intangible quality, some point in time when he would simply know that he was ready to face Steve. And that was bullshit because he could spend _lifetimes_ trying to outrun his guilt. That was it though, wasn’t it? He was waiting for the shame to subside, waiting for a moment when his previous actions didn’t feel so much like betrayal. Bucky wanted to be able to face Steve on equal footing, to look him in the eye and not feel like a monster by comparison.

As he stared down at the cybernetic deformity ruling his life, he acknowledged that it wasn’t likely he’d ever be able to outrun the shame. But that was why he ultimately had to heal—so that he could make amends. And no matter how much he loathed what he had been turned into, he knew that Steve would never see him as a monster; if Captain America could find goodness in him then there had to be hope.

Emma cleared her throat, waiting for an answer. He stalled on giving her one, wanting to redirect her attention. That was when Bucky became aware of a strange, rhythmic clicking. He couldn’t identify the sound off the top of his head, so he asked, “What are you doin’?”

She hummed, unimpressed with his clumsy transition, but let the subject drop. “Conditioner and combs will only get me so far,” she replied. “There are some nasty mats in my hair that just have to be cut out.”

He turned off the shower, stepped out, and began to towel himself dry, curiously studying her motions. She was wrapped in nothing but a towel as she moved with surety, and it took a lot of effort to prevent his gaze from traveling south. Determined to keep his eyes above her shoulders, he watched as she carefully navigated her hair. What had once just been indeterminately dark was now closer to chestnut in color; perhaps, with a little sun, a few vibrant streaks of auburn might even appear. She sheared off a section here and there when it seemed beyond any hope of setting to rights, doing her best to blend the odd cuts together. After she caught his gaze in the mirror, she shrugged and told him, “It’s not exactly going to be salon beautiful, but at least it won’t be hobo-chic anymore.”

All things considered, she was actually doing quite a good job, but he couldn’t help teasing, “I have sudden hesitations about letting you cut my hair.”

“Oh, _please,_ ” she huffed, rolling her eyes. “Automatic clippers—your hair will be a snap.” She cut free the last of the tangles, quickly ran a brush through the liberated locks, then told him, “Go shave while I get dressed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a deep an inexplicable love for this chapter. I wouldn't call it my favorite, but there's something about forcing these two into awkwardly domestic situations that makes me happy.
> 
> Deepest gratitude to all those who bookmarked or left kudos, particularly to PrimaDea, BubbleBakerPenguinPie, goldenpearl96, and jjgoodhope for leaving comments.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma and Bucky finish up in the bathroom despite the fact that both of them would rather linger.

Emma fought down a blush as she stepped just outside of the bathroom. She’d done her level best to act unaffected, but the sight of a freshly showered Bucky was earth shattering. She felt like she’d just seen a priceless work of art.

He was tall, made up of lean, _lean_ muscle, whipcord strength on display in every dip and valley. His chest was well-defined, giving way to tight abdominals that themselves gave way to the intriguing V of his narrow hips. The mirror had prevented her from pursuing any further down without turning to face him, but she had no doubt that everything south of the border was just as magnificent. Water had dripped from his hair, trailing down his tanned skin in glossy beads that she wanted to follow with her tongue. Even his prosthetic arm, so jarringly technical compared to the wholly earthy picture he provided, seemed somehow more tempting in that moment. And he’d been devouring her with his eyes, drinking in details while offering a subconscious invitation in return.

She’d wanted to accept, wanted to take comfort and explore the thrill of learning these new boundaries, but now was hardly the time to indulge. So she’d walked away, determined to get dressed and desperately hoping that clothing might cool at least a little of her ardor.

It really did not.

But that was mostly _his_ fault because he was still naked. The long, sinewy lines of his back made her mouth go dry. He was tight and toned without appearing bulky, a triumph of efficiency and strength. Each careful sweep of his hand and arm sent a ripple through the muscles of his shoulder, flexing and pulling with a beautiful economy of movement. She wondered briefly how he’d been able to keep up such mass while living underground—protein bars would only go so far, after all. She herself hardly had any muscle to speak of because she rarely took in enough calories to maintain them.

Bucky toweled his cheeks and chin off, turning to face her with a raised brow. It belatedly occurred to Emma that she’d been ogling him while he shaved in front of a mirror where he could _absolutely_ see her wandering eyes. Busted. She could feel the tips of her ears turning about ten different shades of red, but based on the playful quirk of his lips she knew he was far from offended.

When they’d first met, he’d already been nursing a fairly dense stubble and it had only continued to grow over the course of their relationship. Seeing him clean-shaven for the first time was shocking. His jaw was pleasingly square, casting shadows along the sleek plains of his cheeks and highlighting the subtle but irresistible swell of his strong cheekbones. His chin was well-balanced, neither pointy nor broad, and it drew attention up to his lips. And _dear god,_ those lips! They were plush and perfectly proportioned, the bottom one slightly fuller, rosy temptation spread in a knowing smile. She’d already thought him handsome before; this was almost too much. He was gorgeous and he knew it.

Except for his shaggy hair. Perhaps with more time and a better idea of how to style it, Bucky wouldn’t look half bad with long hair, but right now all it did was draw attention away from his face. So it had to go, if only so that he might look more like the young man in the picture he’d shown her.

Ignoring the bold, masculine arrogance it took for him to face her while fully nude, Emma told him, “I’m going to go find a chair for you to sit in while I tackle that mop on your head.” She carefully began edging out of the room, telling herself that she _wasn’t_ running away, she was just indefinitely delaying gratification. “Why don’t you go put some pants on in the meantime.”

“Why, indeed?” His voice carried out of the bathroom, following her down the short hall to the kitchen. “Do I make you nervous, Emma?”

She grabbed a chair, laughing as she replied, “As thrilled as I am to see you verging on lecherous today, now is not the time.” It was fun to flirt with danger though, fun to imagine them spending some time in this little house, warming each other up the old fashioned way. It took some iron-strength resolve to pull her head out of that fantasy. “We’re on a schedule here.”

“So bossy,” he complained. “And ruining all my fun too.”

“I don’t even know where to start with that one, Bucky.” She returned with the chair, relieved to see that he had listened to her and put some pants on; _only_ pants though, cruel man that he was. His broad chest was on full display and the sight kept a small fire burning deep in her gut. “Do you honestly think I’d rather be cutting your hair than dragging my nails up your shoulders?”

Just imagining it made her shift restlessly—his solid arms holding her up, pinning her to a wall as his head bent to tease her breasts. From that position she’d be able to explore the vast plains of his back, leaving light red furrows of passion in her wake. They could move together, shift and grind, heighten the frenzy until there wasn’t a single thought in either of their heads other than satisfaction—the feral need to be filled by a strong partner that she trusted. The very idea fanned her smoldering ache into something nearly painful and she had to keep reminding herself that it was imperative not to act on any impulses. She could have that little fantasy, just not right now.

“You’re hard to read sometimes. All you have to do is ask, you know,” Bucky said, carefully sitting down in the chair she’d set before the sink. Perking up a little, looking hopeful, he asked, _“Was_ that you asking?”

“It was not,” she patted his head patronisingly, wanting to diffuse the tension between them, turn it into something lighter. “We still have to _talk,_ remember?”

“How could I forget,” he grumbled, sitting perfectly still as she got to work.

Emma used her shears first, wanting to shorten his hair before she brought out the clippers. “If it softens the blow at all, I’ve been waxing poetic in my head.”

“I’ve been doin’ the same thing so, no, not really,” Bucky drawled, humor lacing his tone. “That just makes it harder to justify why we aren’t havin’ significantly more fun right now.”

“I mean, we could,” she shrugged, “but it might put a damper on the occasion when a bunch of Nazis burst through the door.”

He laughed, relaxing. “Now there’s a sentence that you don’t hear so much.”

* * *

Bucky tried not to watch as Emma worked, but the transformation was mesmerizing. Locks of hair fell from him, each one a weight off his mind. He hardly recognized himself in the mirror, and yet the reflection looking back at him was painfully familiar. The young man gazing out at him, humor dancing in his eyes, was very nearly Sergeant Barnes. Give him a hat to wear at a cocky angle and no one would ever guess that he didn’t remember his past.

There hadn’t been mirrors in HYDRA, so he hadn’t really known how much he’d been changed. Underground, it had been easy not to think about appearance, easy to disregard the concern as frivolous. But here, now, he finally understood: the cult had done everything in their power to make him look like anything other than what he was. They’d shielded his eyes, muzzled his mouth, draped him in black and obliterated his mind. But Sergeant Barnes had never been far from the surface, had he? The Soldier still lingered—it wasn’t as if he could get rid of his arm—but that diminished presence was something Bucky could live with.

Emma set her scissors down and plugged in the clippers. “Let me see that picture again,” she demanded, holding out her hand.

He passed the copied article over. It was worn and creased; he’d printed it off weeks ago in some tiny Internet cafe during his brief search into Emma’s past. He hadn’t been able to resist looking himself up, hadn’t been able to stop himself from collecting that one small token. Many nights had found him taking the picture out, studying the faces by firelight, tracing what should have been familiar lines. Some nights he thought he could almost hear their voices, these long dead friends he so desperately wanted to remember; other nights they felt like complete strangers, alien and distant. Once in a great while a tiny fracture would find its way to him—the way someone laughed or grinned—but it was never anything substantial.

Emma studied the photo for several long minutes, dutifully memorizing it. There was a faraway and altogether sad look in her pale eyes. She was uniquely in a position to understand him, to envy that he had this souvenir to hang onto. As she adjusted the guide on her clippers and set to task, Bucky couldn’t help but wonder what she had to hold onto. She was not, by any standard, a sentimental woman—the tunnels had been a place of meager possessions, where the only objects of worth were ones that kept you alive—but he wondered if perhaps she _wanted_ to be. Emma was changing little by little, acknowledging the necessity of planning their future; she was picking up with a sudden forward momentum. He had to wonder if it made her yearn for the past at all. With the freedom now to be a person, did she lust after her former identity the way he lusted after his?

She pressed tightly against him, abruptly cutting his thoughts off. There was no delicate way to observe that Emma was comparatively short; their height difference was almost comical. More than once, he’d wondered if her petite stature was part of the reason he felt so innately protective of her—she was much stronger than she looked, but it was difficult to keep that in mind when what she looked like was a fragile little lady—and right now he didn’t care. Right now, more than ever, he loved their height difference because, even sitting down, it made her stretch and twist and press _oh so close_ as she attempted to cut his hair. Canine determination and feline flexibility married together in one package that never once seemed to realize she could just ask him to slouch down.

Then again, maybe she did realize it. Bucky studied her in the mirror, watched as the reflection of her cool gray eyes betrayed the telltale dilating of her pupils. She was pressing into him because she damn well _wanted_ to, wanted to feel the silky glide of his muscles without instigating something more serious. And she was a glorious tease, too. Never in one place for very long, her left hand trailing over the back of his neck, occasionally gripping the meat of his shoulder or playing around the plates of his metal arm. The soft swell of her breasts grazed his spine once or twice, leaving him on edge. He wanted to turn around, to snare an arm about her waist and catch her tight against him, to kiss and explore until both of them were exhausted and their worries were just a distant memory. Impossible fantasy—they had to keep moving, couldn’t stop that long yet without putting themselves in danger—but, _damn,_ how he wanted it!

Her careful, carnal dance around him eventually stopped and she stepped back to admire her work, running her fingers over his scalp as she teased his locks into some kind of style. Emma had clearly taken the picture to heart, but had also taken liberties with what she’d seen. It was, perhaps, a little old-fashioned—tight on the sides and loose on the top—similar to the photos he’d seen, but somehow looking modern enough not to draw undo attention. She had taken her work to careful extremes: the short sides were shorter and the long longer, but he rather liked it. Staring back at him from the mirror wasn’t exactly Sergeant Barnes but nor was it The Soldier, either. Just Bucky—mischievous, deadly, in-between Bucky.

“What do you think?” She asked, nervously worrying at her lower lip as she ran her fingers through his hair again. “Still a little too long on top? I could take another inch or two off if you like.”

“Nah,” he breathed, still studying himself. It was a huge difference from how he’d looked a mere hour ago. And he liked it, liked the weight off his neck, the stray strands out of his face, enjoyed the curious blend of tidy sides and chaotic top. It was fitting, damn near a poetic reflection of his state of mind. And it didn’t escape his notice that Emma hadn’t been able to keep her hands to herself since turning off the clippers—she liked it too, liked it a lot if her stroking fingers were anything to go by.

“It’s okay?” She pressed after his silence began to draw out, sounding genuinely nervous. Funny how she hadn’t cared over much about her own hair but was completely on edge about his.

He stopped her questing fingers, drawing them down slightly as he met her eyes in the mirror. Then, ever so slowly, he pressed a kiss to her knuckles, teasing the soft skin there with his lips.

Her pupils blew wide, breath shallowing out. It was such a small thing to affect her so much, a chaste gesture of gratitude. And yet the high swells of her cheeks were stained pink and she looked like she was barely stopping her other hand from reaching out to caress him. But she _did_ hold herself back, standing eerily still as she watched him watch her. Her eyes spoke a dozen different emotions to him—longing, impatience, loneliness—and he knew that if he suggested it right now, if they allowed this moment to grow, she would happily follow him to the bedroom, assuming they made it that far.

He had always pushed the emotional aspect of their relationship, driving her to open and confide in him, but he had been careful to let her lead the more physical natures. The passion between them was a capricious thing—always present, but always fluctuating—and it was definitely mutual, but he had never pressed. The truth was that Emma herself was rather capricious, hot and cold as she reacted to the ever changing world around her; so he hadn’t dared to do more than flirt lest her attitude take a sudden detour at exactly the worst time possible. Right _now,_ though? Maybe it was a good time to exchange roles just a little, to relax control and test this boundary ever so slightly.

In a swift, precise movement, Bucky looped his arm around her waist, drew her forward and down until she was settled delicately in his lap, her back leaning into his chest. A knowing smile curled her lips and she pressed into him, sharing her heat as their simple moment changed. He finally released her fingers, using his free hand to tip her head back, to meet her eyes as he drew in close. His lips ghosted over her ear, across her cheek, teasing a path toward what was promising to be a searing kiss.

Emma’s eyes were dark, glossy with passion as she watched him, waited to see what he would do. Yet even in her anticipation, she held onto her common sense. “What about the Nazis?” She breathed the question against his lips, a soft inquiry.

“Screw ‘em,” he murmured, just on the cusp of tasting her, “we _deserve_ this, if only for a minute.” Heady madness, reckless irresponsibility—they couldn’t afford to waste time. Their enemies were never far behind and capture would destroy them. But there was no stopping this; in that moment they were two cosmic forces, inexorably drawn together.

He pressed forward, meeting her lips in a gliding caress.

Had anything in his life ever felt so wonderful, so _right?_ Emma burned him, branded his flesh with her honest and curious touches. She stirred a wildness in him, a fierce potency that flamed out of control. Two broken parts came together to form a whole, complimenting as they tangled into each other. They moved in tandem, as much a pair now as ever, dancing together in this dangerous, stolen moment.

She moaned low in her throat and reached up to thread her fingers through his hair again, stroking once before she gripped and drew him in closer. He was only too happy to let her angle him, to let her guide him to her greatest pleasure. The tight pressure on his scalp sent electricity down his spine, a guttural growl rumbling out of him at the sensation. She shuddered at his ragged sound, sighing delightedly against his lips. Their position was awkward and twisted, preventing either of them from grinding down, from facilitating that dangerous fire. Bucky had done that on purpose, knowing that the strain would make their kiss that much sweeter, that much more desperate.

But all scenes came to an end and theirs was playing out on borrowed time. Eventually, they drew apart. Need sparked rampantly between them, unfulfilled desire swaying them drunkenly close, but they both knew that it would be a mistake to give in. The clock was counting down and there were still thorny issues lying unexplained between them. They indulged in one more quiet exchange, feeling the weight and assurance of each other as they shared a silent breath, and then separated completely.

She sighed in disappointment as she got back to her feet and he shared that sentiment, but they had lingered too long already. It was time to gather their things and go. He tried not to be bitter about it, but this unexplored interlude between them felt like another infraction on HYDRA’s long list of offenses—one more precious treasure stolen away.

“So what’s the plan here?” Emma asked, clearing her throat as she regathered the supplies they’d strewn about.

Bucky watched her work, handing odds and ends over when she pointed. Their plan was laughably simplistic, but was the only option really available. So he shrugged and told her, “We’ll take the car we drove here in, but we’ll need to trade it out as soon as possible. Something understated like an SUV or a minivan would be best.”

She smiled at him, easygoing where he was now tense. “And then we drive like drunken idiots?”

“Pretty much,” he couldn’t help smiling back. “Meander, double back, make unexpected detours and sharp turns. Doesn’t really matter where we end up so long as we can find our way onto one of the many trails through the mountains.”

“I’m still not entirely certain I’m on board with this hiking plan of yours,” she replied seriously. “Don’t get me wrong, being off the grid is appealing to me. But camping out in the mountains during winter? If HYDRA doesn’t get to us, the weather will.”

He shrugged because, really, what else could they do? “No one ever said it wouldn’t be dangerous. The seasons are startin’ to change so we might catch a break during the days; the nights will still be hellish, but we both know how to survive in adverse conditions.” But for how long? How long could they struggle and how long would he force them to?

As if reading his mind, she murmured, “This isn’t a solution, Bucky. You told me once that by hiding in the tunnels I had put my life on hold. Well, this is _your_ holding pattern.”

“I know,” he admitted on a sigh; there was no point in lying about it when they both _knew._ “Indulge me, please. At least give us enough time to work ourselves out and weather the worst of the ongoin’ search for us before we start lookin’ for help.”

“I’m not unsympathetic,” she told him, reaching out to cup his jaw. “Believe me, I know what it’s like to be terrified of something even as you desire it fiercely. _I understand._ But I’m taking a page out of your book on this one, darling—get ready to be pushed forward, whether you like it or not.” Her thumbs stroked against him reassuringly. “You’ve got two weeks; if you’re not ready by then, you never will be.”

Bucky couldn’t process the thought, didn’t have the strength right now to explain why he was delaying his meeting with Steve. In a way, though, he was glad to hear her pushing the issue. The stress would prey on him for days to come, but having a finite timeline to prepare made it seem somehow more like a manageable task.

Emma stepped away from him then, her hands immediately trailing to pick up her long forgotten braces.

‘Forgotten’ was just wishful thinking on his part; he didn’t want to see that stiff metal press and mar her flesh again. And yet, even he couldn’t deny that they provided her with a comforting measure of safety. Even so, he couldn’t stop himself from blurting,  “No, wait a second, I have somethin' for you.”

He watched her eyes narrow suspiciously. She was sensitive about these wayward creations of hers, enough to make her voice rise up on a sharp, “What?”

“That metal is cuttin’ into your skin,” he explained, turning around to dig into one of their shopping bags. “You’re lucky you haven’t gotten an infection yet.”

“I _have_ to wear them,” Emma argued solidly, immovable.

He’d anticipated that, of course. The woman was one of the most singularly stubborn people he knew—probably—so he’d looked for a way to facilitate her, a compromise to both their preferences. “I know, that’s why I got you these,” he replied, lifting up his purchases to her.

She studied them carefully, a delicate brow raising in confusion. “Chalk powder, medical tape and Vaseline?”

“Boxing-style, sweetheart,” Bucky smiled. “We wrap you up good and tight, and add a little lubricant wherever the braces make the most contact. Might be a little higher maintenance, but it should hurt less.”

“I honestly don’t even feel it anymore,” she shrugged.

Her apathetic response only made him frown. “That doesn’t make it okay,” he pointed out.

Emma had no rejoinder for that and so she sat, fidgeting with impatience, as he wrapped her to his satisfaction. The results were neat and functional, and he’d be lying if he said that he wasn’t a little proud of that fact that he’d been able to protect her even while she protected herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so mean to these two. In my defense though, there is quite a lot standing between them.
> 
> As always, big thanks to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, especially to Ramadiii, BubbleBakerPenguinPie, pinkshirt, Lammstrellicon, PrimaDea, jjgoodhope, and honeyheart for leaving comments!


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Emma finally have their long awaited conversation. Strangely though, it isn't his past that gets called into question.

They drove around for several days, swapping out minivans on occasion and doing their best to keep a low profile. Money was preciously tight after their visit to Ralby’s so they tended to sleep in the van and use what money they did have on gas. They were abstaining from crowds for the most part which meant no opportunities to pickpocket and, gas prices being what they were, it all added up to a completely unstable practice. Bucky had seemed determined to just steal a new vehicle every time the tank ran low, and Emma might have been okay with that plan if it weren’t for the children's car seats. At least three of the vans had had them—itty bitty booster seats with well worn edges—and the sight of them made her mouth dry. The drug dealer’s car had been dangerous, but at least it hadn’t stirred any sort of moral dilemma within her. These vans though were a problem; they belonged to young families, decent people barely scraping by with tiny little mouths to feed, and the loss of their vehicle, even an insured one, would be crushing. It had been a very long time since Emma’s conscience had been concerned with anything other than the LPBs, but here she was worrying about how they might be hurting people she’d never met.

Bucky hadn’t laughed or sneered when she shared that concern; he’d looked thoughtful, a dim echo of guilt reflected in his eyes, as if consequences honestly hadn’t occurred to him until she’d explained her fears. The next vehicle they’d stolen had been one of those advertised rentals that looked like a painter’s van. And, even though it was more conspicuous and got terrible mileage, they stuck with it—siphoning gas into that monstrosity didn’t make either of them feel like dirty thieves the way stealing a young family’s van did.

Roughly a week after their desperate flight had begun, they finally pulled into a train station and ditched the van for good. Using their last few dollars they bought a pair of tickets that would take them northeast. Bucky had studied a transit map and an atlas, and had sworn up and down that about three hours up this particular line there was a platform that nestled right against a state park. It would likely be closed this time of year but that wouldn’t stop them, not when it had trails connected to the spidery network of the Appalachian/Adirondack border.

Riding the rails this time was a vastly different experience and Emma found that she rather liked it. The train was relatively deserted, only a few late night commuters making their lonely ways home, so the two of them almost had an entire car to themselves. It was velvety dark outside the window, only the occasional streetlight marking the edge of a town, and the rhythmic click-clacking of the train wheels was lulling her to sleep.

Bucky sat across from her as she dozed lightly, studying his trail map. It was unclear if he was planning a specific route for them to take or if he was just memorizing landmarks. Eventually, he carefully folded the map back up, stashed it in a pocket and cleared his throat. “So…”

She cracked open an eye. Sad as it was, the hard plastic train seat was more comfortable than the van had been; she’d rather been hoping to catch some sleep before their stop. In a suffering tone, she accused,  “This is payback for all those times I gleefully got you up just a little too early, isn’t it?”

“No,” he denied, looking childishly offended. “All right,” a small smile curled his lips, “maybe a little. But we’ve put this conversation off for long enough, don’t you think?”

Emma didn’t have to ask what he meant—there was really only one elephant in the room. She did, however, have to question his timing. “And you believe that an almost-but-not-quite deserted _public_ train is the ideal place to have it?”

He grimaced and shrugged, replying, “I am absolutely _positive_ that there is _no_ good place to have this conversation, so it might as well be here.”

“Okay,” she sighed, sitting up from her slump, “cards on the table then.”

“You could try to be less nonchalant about this,” Bucky pointed out, sounding chagrined.

She rolled her eyes for effect—a large part of Emma knew that this conversation was going to be emotionally draining so she was doing her best to keep things lighthearted. “You’re such a drama queen,” she accused with a grin. “Do you want me to put my sad face on for you?” At that she pasted on a wide frown, wiping away a few imaginary tears.

He laughed at her antics, perhaps grateful for the levity. “Now you’re just bein’ terrible on purpose.”

“It’s not that I don’t understand the gravity of the situation,” she explained, “I just hate seeing you this serious.” And she really did. Bucky was at his best when he was smiling wide and carefree. Who would trade that in for the bruised look he’d be wearing within minutes?

“Noted,” he hummed. “However…”

“Yes, all right,” Emma gave him another put upon sigh. “Break out into your dirge, if you must.”

Bucky flashed her a grin and stated, “I was born in 1917.”

“Yes, _grandpa,”_ she teased. “The revelation about you being a Howling Commando pretty much covered that.”

He appeared ever so briefly dumbfounded, as if she hadn’t had the better part of a week to come to terms with his inexplicable age. “And that doesn’t bother you?”

“I’m coping,” she told him seriously, allowing herself to sober up. “Really, I’m more bothered by: _seriously how_ do you look so good for a ninety year old?”

He brightened at her compliment, but it was quickly devoured by the black look rolling through his eyes. His lips parted to explain, but all that came out was, “HYDRA.”

And, honestly, she didn’t need more than that. She’d seen it herself, hadn’t she? In that strange bank vault with the terrifying chair, in that room where she’d lost so many pieces of herself Bucky had stood like a frozen sentinel. The puzzle fit together so suddenly, it left her a little breathless. “Cryogenics.”

He frowned at that single, sighed out word. “How did you know?”

“Remember that nightmare I had?” Emma asked, getting up to sit next to him. “You were in it. At the time, I figured it was a coincidence—I’d just seen your prosthetic for the first time, so why wouldn’t you be in my dream?—but now I’m not so sure. You were there, frozen in a cryotube, when they tried to erase my memory.”

Bucky brought his arm around her, cuddling her in close as he mumbled, “That’s about the long and short of explaining my longevity. But we’re getting out of order here.”

“Fine, Mr. Copperfield,” she snorted, “start at the beginning.”

“Sassy,” he complained lightly. “Also, I don’t remember the beginning. There’s this huge stretch’a time—childhood, school, the army, _The War_ for cryin’ out loud—that’s just completely blank.” His eyes went briefly distant, as though trying to pierce the fog that haunted him. “I know now that HYDRA got to me during The War, that I was presumed dead as they secretly stole me away to experiment on.”

“So where _do_ you start?”

He shrugged helplessly. “It isn’t very lucid. I remember bits and pieces of missions, little plateaus of violence that stick out in my mind. Nothing was clear until I saw Captain America.”

Emma frowned, trying to piece those statements together. “And he changed things?”

“HYDRA wielded me like a weapon, a carefully guarded secret that could do their dirty work in silence—and I did that work for decades, goin’ in and outta stasis as needed,” he explained. “But before I was _their_ tool, I was _his_ friend—you can reset a blade, but it will always be better suited to the original handle. I saw Steve and I just knew that everything in my life had been made wrong. I might never be able to be the person that I was before—”

She interrupted him immediately, chastising, “Don’t be trite.”

Bucky looked completely taken aback. “Excuse me?”

It was rude, but what else could she say? There was no merit in letting him continue that line of reasoning. She understood guilt, understood the weighty problems he was grappling with, but there was a difference between coping and wallowing. If he continued down the path his words had been forging it would ruin him; her cheerful jerk would fast become a brooding ghost. And who did that help? What was the point in struggling this hard for a normal life if he was only going to squander it obsessing over things that couldn’t be changed? Maybe she wasn’t the best person to be giving this advise, considering her own track record, but there was no reason she couldn’t share her thoughts on the matter.

Yet, how to explain it without sounding insulting? Striking on an idea, Emma told him, “Let’s think about this in digital terms. HYDRA wrote a program that bypassed your original system, but never actually purged it. The coding is all still there so you just have to get rid of the bypass and you’ll be back to factory settings.”

He frowned at her analogy and she belatedly wondered how tech savvy a person born in 1917 might actually be. Drawling, he replied, “Which would be great _if_ I were a computer.”

Okay, so not the best analogy then. “My point is,” she stressed, carrying on, “there’s no reason you can’t be whoever the hell you want to be. Why else would we be given second chances?”

Bucky folded in on himself, looking more tired and worn down than any man had a right to. “But how do I reconcile my wrongdoings? I was an _assassin;_ whether the control was outta my hands or not, I still spilled a lot’a innocent blood.”

Emma reached out and tipped his head to meet her gaze. “Darling, you _don’t_ reconcile it,” she told him gravely. “You _grieve_ as you would for any loss; allow yourself to work through it and heal.”

His eyes darted, the shadow of self-loathing and vulnerability flitting through before he asked, “Do I even deserve to heal?”

Which was the real crux of the problem. How did you weigh a human life? How did you pay penance for that sin, and could you ever do enough to wipe the slate clean? And the simple matter was that you couldn’t ask those questions—they were paralytic. You could beat yourself up with them for your whole life and never do an ounce of good.

Speaking slowly, trying to parse out her thoughts, she explained, “You can use their memory to drown yourself in darkness, Bucky, and I guarantee you nothing will change. Or,” and this was it, this was the philosophy that had kept her sane, “you can honor them by fighting for a better world—let their deaths have meant something.”

He cocked his head, considering. “Are you speaking from experience?”

“I have blood on my hands too, you know.” She swallowed thickly, but there was no getting around it; if she wanted him to understand, she was going to have to tell him about the LPB tests. She took a moment to fortify herself against the trauma, then began her gruesome story. “There were five of them, just everyday people, could have walked in off the street for all I know. Nice normal people that didn’t deserve the deaths they were met with.” She remembered each of their faces—three men, two woman, varying races—they’d looked like the sort of folks that might have lived in her neighborhood. “I didn’t kill them directly—I wasn’t even in the same room when it happened—but I will never forget them. I will _never_ forget observing as their skin was _ripped_ from their bodies, watching as their bleeding flesh _liquefied_ around soggy bones.” Tears pricked her eyes and tightened her throat, but she forced herself to continue. “As five nice, normal people became little more than _puddles_ on a sterile lab floor. The lab techs just turned on a hose and washed them down a drain, like they were some kind of chemical spill. You might have been the more prolific assassin, but at least you left something behind for their families to bury.”

The images washed over her, unbidden—the agony and terror-twisted expressions, the sickly colored thickness that had once been thinking, living flesh circling the drain as indifferent techs debated which cafe to take their break at—and her throat began to work convulsively, cutting her words off. Bucky shushed her, drew her in close like he could bodily protect her from that panic. Little by little, she calmed, taking strength from him until she felt steady enough to carry on, “ _I_ did that to those people; my brain dreamt up the devices that made it possible and _I released that horror upon the world._ The least I can do for them is to make sure that no one else ever dies that way again.”

Bucky’s breath shuddered out of him unevenly and she worried what he must think of her now. Was he disgusted? Was he as terrified with her as she was with herself? But she should have known better—he was unfailingly compassionate to her, and it wasn’t as if they hadn’t started out this conversation with his own shadowy past—because when he spoke it was to tell her, “I’m so sorry, Emma.” And he sounded it, too; his voice was deep, sombre, laced with pain at the thought that she had to live with those memories for the rest of her life.

She took a minute to collect herself, quietly folding those terrible moments back into the recesses of her thoughts. “It’s the past,” she said eventually. “I’ll remember it and I’ll honor their sacrifice, but it’s time to move forward now.”

He stroked her hair, leaned his cheek against the top of her head, and asked, “Where does this leave us?”

That was an excellent question. Neither of them had moved away. No one had shot up and run for the hills in protest. There were still questions, of course—Bucky’s past was still rather clouded, after all—but it didn’t feel as though they’d lost their equilibrium. So she shrugged and replied, “Pretty much where we’ve always been, I think.”

He grinned sadly at that. “Good people who didn’t mean to do bad things?”

“I don’t see you any differently,” Emma ventured bravely. “You’re still the jackass who barged his way into my shanty.”

Another smile at that, this one wide and genuine before he somberly informed her, “And you’re still the stubborn fool that’s gotta do everything the hard way.”

* * *

Bucky quietly watched the world slip past their window. Not that there was much to see; the night laid inky and all encompassing around them. In the van he’d never much cared, but now it was pressing in on him, closing off his senses until he felt trapped on the train. Their car was cozy, quiet, bathed in golden-orange light—a far cry from the freight train they’d taken out of DC—but something about it sat ill with him. There was melancholy lurking in their tranquility, a sadness there that he couldn’t define. It was possible that the emotion was just an effect of stress or the ever present knowledge that they were in danger, but it felt deeper than that. There was something about the gentle, rhythmic swaying of the train, of the familiar ambient noises that wore at him. He felt, all at once, that he’d both used to love and hate trains. The past was echoing up to him, whispering in words he couldn’t understand and the effort to interpret it was simply making him tired.

The last few hours had really taken their toll. He felt wrung out for the first time in a long time. For weeks before they’d even left the tunnels, Bucky had been trying to keep positive, to embrace life and move forward. He’d stumbled a few times along the way, but he’d always gotten right back up. Tonight though… tonight was the first time a sense of futility had decided to visit. Talking to Emma, he’d found himself questioning plans that he’d taken for granted—the idea of living a normal life and making amends had suddenly seemed so far out of reach. But then she had shared her story, and all he had been able to think was that she _deserved_ better; she deserved to put the past to rest, to move on and live like anyone else. And if she deserved that, then why not him? Their pasts weren’t that different, after all; they were both decent people who had been made to do terrible things. Hadn’t they _earned_ the right to heal?

But even as those thoughts grounded his resolve, the melancholy stayed. They were in the thick of it now, right in the middle of fighting for their lives and running wouldn’t be an option forever. He had one week left before Emma would demand that they find Steve, one more week to evade HYDRA while he got his thoughts in order. But what came after that? Delving through the past had made the future seem suddenly uncertain. Would Steve help? Could Steve help?

He was tired of struggling, exhausted with the constant fight to stay alive. What he wouldn’t give to just be able to sprawl out on a couch and listen to the radio for a few hours! He wanted some peace and quiet, but there was still so much left to do. And it wasn’t as if the danger would ever _fully_ go away—HYDRA was massive, and even if Bucky and Emma found allies they would never be completely safe. But beggars couldn’t be choosers; life had dealt them a spectacularly bad hand and they would simply have to make do.

This was always how middle bits went, wasn’t it? Beginnings were exciting, full of energy and ideas, and endings rushed by in grand enthusiasm to finally finish. But middles were tricky—desires flagged, ideas exhausted themselves, and unwanted questions began to pop up. In a way, he supposed what he was feeling was completely natural, but it was still tiring.

The night spiralled onward. It had to be close to eleven and their stop was nearly up, but he found himself savoring this sad, strange moment even as it came to an end. Emma was pressed against him, soaking in his heat as she slept, hushed breaths ghosting across his chest in deep and even pulls. She seemed so carefree in repose, so untouched by the darkness of the world that he didn’t want to wake her. Why take that illusion away? One day though— _one day_ —it wouldn’t be an illusion anymore, and that’s why they had to fight so hard right now, no matter how deeply it wore down on them. He could be strong for her if not for himself.

The blown out PA crackled to life, announcing their stop. This was it, their last available option before finding Steve would become a necessity. Bucky was no stranger to hardship, but he found himself oddly unhappy with the idea of leaving civilization again. Perhaps a part of him was simply worried that Emma would relapse, once more become that secluded, self-destructive, self-contained woman. It had taken so much effort to crack that hard shell of hers; he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if she slid back. He rather imagined that she must have felt the same when confronted with the Winter Soldier—could he take it in stride as she had? They were questions without merit, however; there was no use in wondering about it when the two of them were already so firmly set on this course. For better or worse, it was time to go.

Bucky stretched and gently shook Emma’s shoulder. “Time’s up, sweetheart,” he murmured. “This is our stop.”

She quickly blinked the hazy confusion from her eyes—she must not have been that deeply asleep—and sat up. As the train slowed they both stuffed their coats on, grabbed their camping packs and headed for the closest exit. “Shit, that’s brisk,” she complained as they meandered onto the platform.

The station was nothing to write home about—a little country stop without any outbuildings. There were only two platforms total, each one protected by weathered metal roofing and the desperate encroachment of the surrounding nature. It was basically a station in the middle of the woods, small parking lot and weedy streetlamp providing the last outpost of civilization. The forest laid ahead of them, looking dark and inviting—trees, hills, and caves would all provide excellent, defensible cover. They could survive out here, like this, away from the prying eyes and pervasive technology; they could be safe for one week, and then it was back to the fear and the fighting, but they would cross that bridge when they got there. For now, it was enough to know where they were and what they were doing.

“How cold do you think it is?” Emma asked as they slid down the steps and ventured into the waiting darkness.

Bucky hummed as he considered that question. Despite its age, Ralby’s had offered some quality goods—their new outerwear was professional quality, thickly insulated and waterproof. Mother Nature was still going to be a bitch, but the odds were in their favor. “Right around freezing, I’d say.”

Emma stifled a yawn and hurried to his side. She never once complained about the weight of her pack or the uneasiness she must be feeling at the impenetrability of the night around them, but she did clasp his hand as they moved forward. The forest was quiet, soft sounds shushing through the trees, all at once peaceful and eerie. Perhaps it was that dichotomy that drove her to speak, “So here comes the part where I ask you what you’ve got planned and you proceed not to tell me.”

“It’s never stopped you from askin’ before,” he replied, smiling even though she probably couldn’t see it.

She laughed at that, biting out, “Too right!” He just barely made out her emphatic nod. “Are we actually going to _hike,_ or are we looking for a stable place to set up camp?”

“Little bit’a both,” Bucky shrugged, feeling a little guilty that there honestly wasn’t more to it than that. Sometimes though, simple plans worked the best. “I mean, we’re not goin’ anywhere in particular so there’s no hurry, but we should keep movin’.”

She was silent for a moment then, voice hushed, asked, “Do you think HYDRA followed us?”

Almost subconsciously, his left hand slipped down to touch the hilt of his knife. It was easy to feel like they were the only two people alive when surrounded by wilderness, but that didn’t mean they could drop their guard. Her question certainly pressed the gravity of the situation down on them, but it was nice to know she was trying to keep perspective. “My hope is that they got lost in our trail somewhere along the way, but it would be stupid not to consider the possibility that they’re still close by.”

“Even after a week?” She asked, stumbling over a protruding root.

He helped her catch her balance, drawling, “They’re _not_ Neo-Nazis, sweetheart; they are _actual_ holdovers from the war, so I think they know how to play the long game. They won’t give up until they have to.”

“And Steve will be able to help us?”

Hopefully. _Please God,_ let Steve Rogers be the man Bucky _thought_ he was! But he couldn’t share those fear with Emma, wouldn’t burden her with his uncertainty. Instead, he merely replied, “On his own, maybe not. But the thing is, he’s _not_ on his own—never is.” Which was true enough; people rallied around Steve almost instinctively.

She laughed, a silly sound that had him wondering where her thoughts had gone, until she said, “Desperate flights, clandestine meetings… I feel a bit like a resistance fighter.”

That made him smile, although the truth of it hit pretty close. “In a way, you are.”

Emma squeezed his fingers and leaned into his side a little. Her silence seemed ever so briefly hesitant, but a question escaped her despite whatever misgivings she might have had. “Is this what it was like during The War?”

He didn’t begrudge her the question even though it left him at a loss. But he gave it due consideration before shrugging, “Probably. Don’t know for sure. The minute I remember, I promise to regale you with tales’a my brave heroism.”

She chuckled at that, squinting at him through the darkness as her eyes began to adjust. Her limbs moved wearily and she paused every now and again to smother a yawn—he had a feeling she was using conversation to keep herself awake.

They came to the border of the state park. It wasn’t anything fancy: a rusty old chain-link fence that had a few bills posted to it. After a few moments of struggle, they both managed to climb over the top—thank god there hadn’t been any barbed wire or electric lines—and picked up at the edge of a north-south trail. If his trail map was to be trusted, this particular path would take them tantalizingly deep into the mountains.

Seemingly out of nowhere, Emma struck upon a new topic, “Do you think he’ll like me?”

“Who? _Steve?”_ Bucky nodded, surprised somehow that she would think otherwise. “I’m pretty sure he likes _everyone_ at first; it’s only the bullies he turns against.”

She frowned at him, puzzled. “Is it instinct that guides you? You tell me you don’t remember things, but then you go and make decisive statements like that.”

“My mouth shoots off without my permission,” he tried to explain, “but once I’ve said it I know it sounds right. It’s not the same with you?” He’d never considered the possibility that it wasn’t. Their situations were so similar it seemed logical to assume she shared this affliction.

But it seemed that problem was uniquely his, because she replied, “I’ve mostly just forgotten names, places, and the bulk of my scientific background. It’s not so much memory that’s been lost to me as hard facts. I could tell you all about my childhood misadventures, just don’t ask me my mother’s name.”

He tilted his head at that. Both of them were amnesiacs of a sort; it had never occurred to him that their difficulties could manifest in such different ways. It was fascinating really, but one aspect truly bothered him. “Gonna do it anyway. Is Emma _not_ your name then? ‘Cause I won’t lie, I tried to look you up once and I got zip.”

She didn’t seem surprised at that, though she did look a little sheepish about potentially giving him a fake name. “I don’t know,” she shrugged helplessly, “it honestly might not be. I don’t waste too much time thinking about it, to tell you the truth—Emma’s just as good as any other name.”

Bucky was dumbfounded. She couldn’t mean that, could she? “I really don’t get it.”

“Why?”

He licked his lips and drew back upon the things he could remember. “When I was in HYDRA they called me by code names—The Asset, the Winter Soldier—findin’ out my real name was like bein’ _unshackled.”_ Sweet freedom, endless possibility, the chance to _be_ someone again! There was no way to put into words how liberated he’d felt once the shock had worn off. “How could you not be curious?”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t,” she argued, “it’s just not a priority to me. Whether you call me Emma or Florence, I’ll still be the same person.”

He didn’t see it, so he pressed, “ _Would you,_ though? You were a scientist, probably had some fancy degrees to your name. You don’t think someone callin’ you Dr. So-And-So would help trigger your memories?”

“I can’t say that I’ve given it thought,” Emma replied, sounding a little chagrined now. “Until recently, I was content simply to exist as a homeless shadow.”

“But you _do_ want to know, don’t you?”

Another frustrating shrug from her. “I could go either way on most things, but you’re apparently dying of curiosity so I supposed we’ll be digging regardless.”

“Damn straight,” he told her. There was no way they wouldn’t make the effort. HYDRA had stolen from her, it was only fair that she got the opportunity to steal back. It might end up being exhausting and frightening, but at least they could stumble through it together. “If I’m facin’ the past, so are you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, melancholy Bucky. Trains are just not good for you, are they?
> 
> Heaps of gratitude to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, particularly to Monokhrome, PrimaDea, aorangeinboston, and BubbleBakerPenguinPie for leaving comments.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The forest begins to close in around our intrepid pair.

Nature was terrifying. Emma had spent so long concerned with the cruelties of mankind that she’d forgotten how insignificant a person could be made to feel out in the wilderness. The trees and sharp hills rose up around them, uncaring if the two little humans survived. It was a struggle to advance through the park, but there was something about the honest labor of it that made her feel accomplished. There were miles and miles of untouched forest ahead of them, and Emma found herself looking forward to meeting that challenge. A small part of her still itched with unease though, and it stemmed from more than the simple worry that their enemies could be close by.

It was the open air that made her nervous. The trees provided a natural canopy, but the wide clear ranges of the forest didn’t sit well with her. Underground, the tunnels had snaked out in confusing twists, labyrinthine and dangerous to the unwary. But she’d known those brick and concrete avenues as no one else had—in a pinch, escape had never been more than a few feet away. However, out here there was nowhere to go because a person could see around the winter-stripped trees for miles. Bucky kept assuring her that it wasn’t the problem she assumed it was, that they had options and could easily disappear if necessary, but she wasn’t convinced. To her, it felt as if their surroundings would force a confrontation regardless of whatever efforts they made to avoid it.

HYDRA couldn’t hurt her—unless they had found a way to deactivate or nullify the braces, she couldn’t _physically_ be touched. But they could still hurt Bucky, still rip at his flesh and mind until he was just as good as dead. The thought always left her sickly, panicked, and in those moments she began to consider how the LPBs might be able to help them. Stomach twisting thought, though. She’d rather risk using the gun before she resorted to shaking someone apart on a molecular level; not even sycophantic cult members deserved that sort of death. Then again… it was hard to say what she might be willing to do if HYDRA managed to corner them.

Better to press onward and pray they never had to find out. Yet the travel was wearying—Emma wasn’t used to sustaining this level of activity, to sprinting and climbing over rough terrain for hours on end—and they quickly found themselves in need of rest. Together they built a small lean-to out of fallen branches and a tarp, lined the inside with dry leaves and set up their heavy sleeping bags. Their campsite nestled against a natural shelf of monolithic boulders, very near a river whose water was slogging around a patchy skin of broken up ice. Spring couldn’t be far behind—the nights were cold, but the days were approaching tolerable—and with it would come the big predators. They were already treading lightly around wolves and coyotes, how would they manage hibernation-maddened bears?

She put those questions aside—no sense in borrowing trouble—and settled in to rest. They huddled together in their makeshift shelter, pressed tight as they faded in and out of consciousness. The forest was alive with gentle noises—birdsong, the chitter of dried leaves skating along the ground, and the monotonous rush of the river beside them—and combined with the heat Bucky threw off, Emma found herself slipping into the first true sleep she’d had in days.

Out here in the wilderness they were not even _remotely_ safe, but she found herself completely at ease. Together with Bucky, she felt as though they could tackle any problem that came their way—awkwardly and with an unconventional flair, because that’s who they were, but the point was that they could persevere. So she allowed herself to drift off, peaceful in the knowledge that for the first time in a long time she trusted someone implicitly.

By the time Emma finally roused from her nap, the day had already fled by, giving way to the long-shadowed golden spill of dusk. She stretched for a moment, then curled deeper into Bucky’s side. He was already awake, languidly observing the world outside their lean-to. His stillness was calm and absolute, which was a little shocking. He was an active, energetic person; the moments when he truly settled were rare.

“You seem relaxed,” she couldn’t help pointing out quietly.

He gave her a lazy smile and replied, “Somethin’ about bein’ out here is soothingly familiar.”

“You probably camped your way across Europe during The War.” It made sense, after all; given what she remembered of his service record, their predicament ought to seem like familiar territory to him. Though he hadn’t made any overt progress with his memories, there were times when he seemed to have the _feel_ of something. Some distant echo called up to him, and his body simply interpreted it; muscle memory perhaps, or some strange effort on his subconscious’s part not to overwhelm him. Whatever it was, it had been happening increasingly often and she could only hope that meant his memories would soon return. She had a feeling that he wanted at least something to hold up for Steve when they finally met, some small shared moment that would help them bond.

She set those thoughts aside and nodded for him. “It _is_ nice here. I don’t suppose we could linger?”

“We might as well stay for the night,” Bucky shrugged. “This is a pretty secure location, so we shouldn’t have any trouble here. But come morning we’ll have to move on.”

There was something subtle in his tone—a hint of stress, a darkening note—that tipped Emma off. “What’s wrong?”

To his credit, he didn’t tense up, sounding nonchalant when he told her, “We’re not alone out here.”

She lifted herself on an elbow to better see his expression. There was nothing there but the quiet acceptance of their circumstances. He was taking in stride what she could hardly fathom. “Someone’s following us _already?”_

“I’ve noticed fresh-lookin’ tracks that don’t belong to either of us,” he explained calmly, allowing his cybernetic arm to stroke over her back in measured patterns. “I can’t say for sure that these people are followin’ us, but it does seem the most likely conclusion.”

She took comfort in his small gestures, enjoying the cool glide of his metal fingers along the warm ridges of her spine. However, as much as she took strength from his steadiness, she couldn’t stop herself from analyzing. If he’d seen tracks it meant the others were _ahead_ of them—unless the pair had doubled back at some point, but she was fairly certain they hadn’t. And if HYDRA was ahead of them, weren’t Bucky and Emma already at a complete disadvantage? “Do you think we’re being funneled into a trap?”

He considered it for a moment, icy gaze going distant as though he was running scenarios through his head. It didn’t take him long to reach a conclusion. “I don’t know,” he replied honestly. “There are at least two groups I’ve seen sign of—one is definitely HYDRA, the other one might just be a civilian decoy, it’s hard to say.”

_Two_ groups? Even if one of them was only a scouting party, it still meant they were grossly outmatched. Then again, they’d been outnumbered in DC as well, and had still managed to escape. However, DC had been close to a week and a half ago, HYDRA would have stepped up it’s game since then. Who knew what sort of tactics they might use when there was no chance the public could be watching?

Emma carefully slipped off her elbow, burrowing into Bucky’s side as she railed against this new development. “We worked _so hard,_ and they’re still only _one step_ behind us! I thought for sure that once we hit the forest, we’d be in the clear.”

“This was always a possibility,” he reminded her softly. “Besides, it’s not like we _aren’t_ in the clear—we haven’t been caught _yet,_ have we?”

That was true and it was something you could bank on. In this moment they were still free. It was such a strange blend of psychology, though—living from second to second as she had for years, yet also planning for the future without fully committing to any details. As much as the idea of potentially rejoining society frightened her, she had to admit that she’d be happier when they could finally plan something for real instead of all this ‘wait and see’ business.

Emma settled more fully against him, briefly recalling the meditative moments they’re shared in the tunnels. It wasn’t so different now: they fit together easily, giving and drawing strength as if they’d been doing this for years. Even so, she found his casual acceptance a little irritating. Playfully accusing, she poked him in the side and said, “You’re taking this in stride.”

Bucky laughed and swatted her hand away, explaining, “One of us has to stay positive.” He ran careful fingers through her hair. “Wanna know my secret?”

She rolled her eyes and drawled, “Sure, _wow_ me,” but still returned the favor—her own fingers delved to caress at his surprisingly soft hair, waiting for the no-doubt horrible advice he was about to give.

He purred against her like a great big cat, words and tone not matching each other at all. “HYDRA’s taken a big hit recently and it’s gonna be in their best interest to fly under the radar for a while. Even so, they are not without means. You and I are high-profile targets; if they knew we were out here for sure, they already would’a sent out a helicopter and a strike team.”

“So basically, you’re staying afloat on the assumption that they’re just guessing?” He had a point though; this deep into the unknown, it would make way more sense to send a team directly to their location rather than sweep the area. But then if they weren’t absolutely sure, why waste resources?

“Could be worse,” he countered, drawing his hands down to splay along her back once more. “It’s a big forest, so we’ll have plenty'a opportunities to avoid them.”

Emma still didn’t fully understand this belief of his that they could remain unnoticed. Where were they meant to go in an emergency? Short of outrunning the enemy, she felt like their options were severely limited. They couldn’t count on a convenient cave being around precisely when they needed it, and climbing up the trees would probably be stupidly obvious. Did he just assume that they would be faster or stronger than their pursuers? As she pondered those questions she came to the conclusion that this might be more of that strange phantom memory of his. After all, the Howling Commandos had been _famous_ for their daredevil tactics. Out in terrain shockingly similar to the old battlefronts, perhaps he was reliving the The War without realizing it.

“Why don’t we just find Steve now?” She couldn’t stop the question from bursting out. It was true that she trusted Bucky more than she could ever remember trusting anyone, but this situation was terrifying. Just the two of them against multiple teams of highly trained cult members? She’d feel a little safer if they had some reliable backup.

He grimaced, clearly not prepared for that yet. “I still have five days,” he reminded her. “Don’t take that from me, please.”

“All right, but that’s it, just the five,” Emma conceded. She didn’t want to push him, didn’t know how fragile his mental state was but she did know it would become a whole lot _worse_ if they allowed HYDRA to sneak up on them. “If we’re still alive after that, we _have_ to go.”

* * *

_“Get down,”_ Bucky bit out, already herding Emma toward a shallow ravine.

She seemed flummoxed by this and he couldn’t blame her—danger had come out of nowhere. “What?”

“In the ditch,” he pressed. _“Now!”_ They struggled down into the gouged earth, shrinking back under an overhang of shale and upended roots.

“What are you—”

But he didn’t let her finish that sentence, muffling her words with his hand just in time.

A HYDRA scouting party came into view. There were six of them total, all of them men and all _deeply_ questioning their current assignment. They were armed to the teeth—hunting knives, shock batons, multiple side-arms apiece—and dressed in body armor that would sincerely take the fun out of hand to hand combat. Despite all that, or rather _because_ of it, they were all weary—too long on the trail without any sight of their quarry—and it made them sloppy. None of them were probably stellar soldiers to begin with, they looked like the sort who had pissed someone off to get this detail, which meant HYDRA was chasing shadows and had only _coincidentally_ managed to find them.

Behind him, Emma drew in a sharp breath, tensing. However the ravine was a decent hiding place; it had good sight lines and wouldn’t give them away unless the team did a little digging. They didn’t really look like the sort to bother, though.

But they apparently _were_ the sort to take a break and bitch about their assignment. Bucky just barely managed to stop himself from groaning when he saw them sit down. Who did that? Who stopped in the middle of a high-stakes search to have a chitchat? It really made him question how HYDRA had become so powerful if it relied on foot soldiers like these.

His day was fast turning sour, and it was such a shame because it had started so well. He and Emma had spent a quiet night regaining their energy, and shared an easy morning stripping the campsite and replenishing their water supply. As they’d set out into the early morning fog, there had been a cozy atmosphere surrounding them, and it had lasted well into the afternoon only to be spoiled by this. They were hiding in a frigid ditch, desperately trying not to make a noise, as a squad of goons moaned about _their_ shit luck.

Bucky wondered how hard it would be to take them down. Even as heavily armed as they were, he didn’t think they’d pose much difficulty. They had the slightly doughy look of new recruits and obviously weren’t big on situational awareness. Hell, he could probably drop at least two of them with Emma’s handgun before anyone even realized the enemy was close by. He’d definitely be able to take on the remaining four—there would be ample opportunity to borrow weapons in the fray, and he’d handled tougher odds while armed with far less. The only problem was that they were wired; no matter how fast he moved, one of them would still have enough time to radio back to headquarters. His temporary satisfaction at getting them out of the way would be immense, but not enough to risk calling reinforcements down on them—which meant picking them off one by one was also out of the question.

Shame, really; life would be so much easier with the enemy combatants reduced from two groups to one. Hunting them would be simple—a few sniper shots at the edge of a ridge, snares, spike-lined pit traps—the job would practically do itself. All he needed was a frequency jammer and then he could show them how a _real_ soldier dealt with _problems._

Bucky’s thoughts stuttered and drew back. He recognized that haze for what it was: the cold logistics of the Winter Soldier carefully planning out a mission he couldn’t afford to accept. Delving into that silent madness stood against everything he’d been fighting for—he wouldn’t do that to himself or Emma. Running might go against his instincts, but it was safer in the long run.

The goon squad eventually stopped grumbling and groaning, reluctantly going back to work. After what felt like ages, Bucky allowed himself to relax and turn to his companion.

Emma was pale and still breathing unsteadily, her eyes wide and glossy with panic. There was a sickly tension in her face that reminded him of how she’d behaved on the train. Was she running through horror-stories in her head, imagining all the inhumane things she might be made to do if HYDRA caught them?

He reached out a careful hand, slowly so as not to startle her, and grasped her shoulder. “Hey,” he soothed, voice measured, “it’s all right. We’re safe.” They were words she had said to him before, simple reassurances that had steered him out of the dangerous depths of his own mind.

She gripped his hand with cold fingers, hanging on as if her life depended on it. After several more minutes and quiet encouragements, her breathing finally leveled out. She still looked a tad ill, but he certainly wouldn’t blame her for it as he rather felt the same. What would have happened to her if he’d slipped into the Winter Soldier again? With emotionally apathetic company and no one to really rely on, she would have suffered alone. The thought was basely upsetting and it strengthened his resolve to be a better person for her.

“That was _way_ too close,” she bit out around a tight jaw.

“At least we know where they are now,” Bucky replied, standing up from the crouch he’d been trapped in. He offered her his hand and continued, “It’ll be easy to put some distance between us since we know which way they headed.”

Disbelievingly, she pointed out, “But we don’t know where the _second_ team is!” She took his hand, allowing him to help her back up to the path they’d so recently abandoned.

“One problem at a time, doll,” he shook his head, surveying HYDRA’s impromptu rest-spot. “We have to stay calm and focused; we’ll be fine if we stick to the plan.”

“Did you see how heavily they were armed?” She held up a single finger and informed him, “I’ve got _one_ round of bullets, Bucky, and then I’m _useless_ as a fighter.”

He figured she was still mostly in shock, so it wasn’t a great time to joke but he couldn’t stop himself, “Then I’d really suggest makin' your shots count.” At her dark glare he held up his hands and relented. “Look, I wouldn’t worry about it too much if I were you. If we get cornered just do what you can and then throw up your shields. I can handle myself in a fight, so don’t feel bad about leavin' me to my own devices. Super soldier, remember?” He glanced at the messy, amateur tracks littering the forest around them and shrugged. “Besides, I doubt they’d pose too much threat, they didn’t look that well trained to be honest.”

Emma turned toward him, but whatever she’d been about to say died on her lips. Her eyes flew wide, an angry shadow igniting those gray depths as she spotted something behind him.

Her expression was all too easy to read. He knew the HYDRA team had come back even before one of them decided to speak, “You sure about that, man? ‘Cause from where I’m standing it looks like you might just be throwing stones.”

A shot rang out accompanied by an angry yell from Emma, and Bucky felt like the biggest jackass in the world for falling for such a simple trick. The team had come ‘round full circle to make sure they hadn’t missed anything. It showed more initiative than he’d given them credit for. Even so, they held themselves sloppily, unfamiliar with their equipment and each other. This wouldn’t be too hard, right?

But he quickly found out that what they lacked in traditional discipline, they made up for in sheer enthusiasm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never underestimate your enemies, Bucky. They might be idiots, but they're still HYDRA.
> 
> Many, many thanks to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, especially to PrimaDea, BubbleBakerPenguinPie, Ramadiii, jjgoodhope, PedobearSmiles, and Rogers_Girl for all leaving lovely comments!
> 
> (Advanced warning for Chapter Seventeen: it will contain something approaching canon typical violence, which will be up in the tags very soon.)


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the midst of their struggle against HYDRA, Emma makes a startling decision.

The six agents hadn’t bothered to surround them, attacking instead in a clumsy V-formation. They were all over the place, clearly not working as a unit, each one vying for a piece of the action. Emma had drawn her gun the minute she realized they weren’t alone, but the shot she’d fired off had only grazed one of the soldiers. It was a good opening though; Bucky took the injured man down with startling efficiency. But after that, chaos erupted in the forest, _almost_ engulfing her in a confusing din of quick movements and loud shouts.

Apparently, no one considered her a threat—the five remaining soldiers were content to leave her on the sidelines like she was some kind of helpless child. Then again, compared to Bucky she probably didn’t look like she posed much danger. He moved with ruthless efficiency, blade glinting through the air as he easily kept five grown men at bay. There was a strange beauty to his movements, so precise and controlled, like a violent ballet. He was a primal force of nature and it only now seemed to be dawning on the agents what it might mean to be fighting a super soldier. So really, she couldn’t blame HYDRA for turning their backs to her, but it was still a stupid mistake.

Emma lined up a shot, catching one guy in the shoulder. Bucky turned on him like an animal, crushing his windpipe with a flash of metal fingers. The sight made her knees wobble, but she forced it back—now was not the time for moral introspection. This was war and they were soldiers; casualties were unavoidable. She lined up another shot, dropping a third agent. The fact that they’d studiously left her outside the physical engagement was working well to her advantage; she wasn’t that good of a marksman to be honest—the kickback was hurting her shoulder and pushing her out of proper form—but they were giving her the time she needed to recover and aim.

Unfortunately, one of the remaining three agents seemed to pick up on that, because he slid away from his compatriots to face her. He wasn’t tall or particularly well defined, in fact he had the soft set of someone who had only recently left an office job, but he was armed and that counted for a lot in this situation. The goon tried to flank her, but she pivoted to keep him in sight—if he thought she’d be easy to take down, he had another thing coming.

Emma briefly considered turning her braces on—being untouchable had its advantages, after all—but she wasn’t sure she liked the trade off. If she activated that shield of counter frequency it would render the gun in her hand absolutely worthless; the vibrations would absorb the gunpowder’s ignition, effectively preventing her from doing more than just jamming the barrel. And really, even though she wasn’t much of a warrior, she didn’t like the idea of tagging out; no matter what he’d said, she didn’t _want_ to leave Bucky to his own devices. Two against three was better than one against three; it was just simple math.

Her would-be assailant stopped and whistled, shaking his head as he looked between her and Bucky. “I can’t believe you’re helping him,” he said, interrupting her thoughts.

She frowned at him. His demeanor had changed, aggression giving way to an oily sort of charm. There was a serpentine sweetness in his eyes, a sort of gleeful animosity. He was about to switch tactics and didn’t think she would notice. Her eyes narrowed and she lifted the gun warningly, but kept her silence.

The goon held up his hands, false concern oozing from his every gesture. “I mean, you _do_ know what he is, right?”

The words struck Emma as a hideous objectification. But that’s how they saw him, wasn’t it? HYDRA was only concerned with the what—operative, spy, assassin, killer, tool—they never took the time to consider the who. And they really should have, because that was Bucky’s greatest asset. She couldn’t stop herself from glancing over at him; even in the midst of a struggle, it was clear to her who he was. He was a good man, rough around the edges sometimes and willing to make moral sacrifices if he had to, but genuinely kindhearted at his core. There was no enjoyment on his face as he fought these men, no hint of sadism; even as he was killing, there was a certain mercy in his quick attacks. HYDRA was dead wrong if they thought that he was a monster.

The goon’s face had split into a mocking smile by the time she whipped back around—he’d seen some kind of softening in her eyes and had mistakenly interpreted it for weakness. “Aw,” he purred slimily, “well isn’t that sweet! You’ve _fallen in love_ with your kidnapper.”

_Shit!_ Shit, now was not the time to let those words effect her, but she couldn’t stop her thoughts from spinning out of control. Love? She wanted to brush the accusation off, but another quickly darted glance at Bucky confirmed it. Not a single death today would plague her thoughts, but if Bucky didn’t make it she didn’t know what she would do with herself. She’d be adrift again, grieving for all their lost opportunities, for the life they could have built together if not for HYDRA.

Emma shook the thoughts aside, latching onto the goon’s last words to stabilize herself. “He didn’t kidnap me.”

The bastard simply laughed, “Oh, lady, have you got your wires crossed!”

“Stop talking,” she snapped, cocking the gun.

“He’s not a _person_ , miss,” the agent pointed out, trying to find a crack he could worm into. “He’s a _machine_ , and machines _don’t_ love.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re just leverage,” he pressed, apparently trying to sway her allegiances, “something to soothe his mark into a false sense of security. Once he’s finished off Rogers, what do you think will happen to you?”

“I’m not an idiot, you know,” Emma sneered, fingering the trigger. His attempts to influence her were painfully transparent; Bucky had been right, these guys weren’t that well trained. “You wouldn’t be so intent on capturing him if he was still playing by your rules.”

There was the sudden hum of high voltage electricity in the air, followed by the briefly stinging scent of ozone. A snarl and a roar, some heavy sounds of falling—Emma knew the tide was turning in this fight, that HYDRA was getting the better of them. Bucky bellowed with pain and it took all her strength not to turn her attention away from the man trying to ‘reason’ with her.

“Wow,” he clapped his hands mockingly, smile twisting wider at the sounds of Bucky’s declining struggle. “I mean, I didn’t believe any of the rumors, but you really are as calm and logical as they say, aren’t you, Dr. Labelle? Not even slightly affected by verbal manipulation.” He turned back to glance at his compatriots and pointed, “I wonder, though, what would happen if I used him against you.”

The remaining two agents had resorted to using their shock batons, driving Bucky to his knees as an ungodly amount of electricity surged through his body. Whatever voltage they were running at had done a serious number to his cybernetic arm—it rested limply against his side, the servos likely fried, rendering the limb useless. Aftershocks were rolling through his body, hunching him close to the ground as the three agents surrounded him.

The bastard running his mouth off turned back to her, explaining, “See the thing is, HYDRA still wants to pick your brains; you’re docile enough to be useful. Him on the other hand?” He activated his own shock baton, the dangerous purr of electricity crackling through the air. “He’s a liability—dangerous to everything and everyone—and the orders are dead or alive. Now, I’d rather take him alive, because that sort of thing looks good on a resume,” he laughed, high and false, as he waved the baton threateningly close to Bucky’s side, “but I don’t _have_ to. Are you going to cooperate?”

Emma considered her options. She still had the gun, of course, and she wasn’t so bad of a shot that she’d miss from this distance. However, she would only be able to take one guy out before the other two would dive right back into torturing Bucky. There was no way she’d be able to recover from the kickback fast enough to take out all three successively, and even if she _could_ there was no guarantee that each shot would prove debilitating or fatal. Adrenaline was running too high for her to talk the agents down, and surrender was an absolute no go. What choice did she have left?

Of course, there was still one unexplored avenue open to her. A precision weapon that would allow her to take out three grown men in the blink of an eye.

Emma uncocked the gun and let it drop, quickly reaching into her coat to draw out the LPBs and the tiny computer that controlled them. Her fingers felt clammy around the smooth metal, shaking as she steeled her resolve. This might actually haunt her ‘til her dying days, but if it meant sparing Bucky further torment then she would gladly do it.

There was a moment of stunned silence, the HYDRA operatives watching her warily. Each was trying to swallow their knee-jerk reaction to the LPBs, but at least two of them had started to turn a little green. They knew exactly what her spheres were and what they were capable of. These men seemed oddly surprised that she’d had those dangerous spheres on her person to begin with.

“Kind of an empty threat, Doc,” the lead agent rolled his eyes, but the tightness at the corner of his lips gave his fright away. “I’ve seen the test tapes—if you set those off you kill all of us, _including_ him.”

“That’s a really dumb thing to say to the person who created the weapon in question,” she replied, punching a series of codes into the computer with quick jabs of her thumb. “Do you know what the _L_ in LPB stands for?” Emma asked as she released the spheres, rolling them into the middle-distance. “ _Localized._ I could turn you into human slurry without touching a hair on his head.”

That threat earned a genuine spot of panic. “Let’s be reasonable here, Dr. Labelle—” But whatever else he’d been about to say died in a throaty gurgle, thin blade protruding from his neck.

Bucky crushed the shock baton as it tumbled from slack fingers, turning on the remaining two agents with an inhuman snarl. He made quick work of them, surprisingly merciful considering that they’d just been torturing him. The forest was eerily quiet as the dust settled, punctuated only by his ragged breathing. After a tense moment in which he seemed to be fighting down the adrenaline rush, he turned to eat up the distance between them, scooping up the wayward spheres as he went. He held the LPBs just out of reach and said in a tired voice, “Don’t compromise your morals for me, Emma; I’m not worth it.”

She blinked and frowned at him, because that was some hypocritical bullshit right there. There was no doubt in her mind that he would have done the same thing, so his lecturing seemed more than a little out of place. “You were on the ground, Bucky,” she snapped, “they were torturing you, threatening to _kill!_ I couldn’t just stand by and watch it happen.”

“Remember your five, sweetheart,” he replied gently, handing the spheres over. “I know you don’t wanna add to their number.”

“You’re right, I _don’t_ want to,” she agreed, letting her nod give way to an apathetic shrug, “but I’m willing to do whatever it takes to protect you.”

His ice-colored eyes studied her, scanning her face as he assessed that statement. She could imagine what he saw. A part of her was still reeling, the goon’s words echoing through her thoughts. Fallen in love? She couldn’t remember ever loving someone romantically, didn’t have the first clue how she was meant to handle that. And it didn’t matter, either; whether she was prepared or not, it had happened. Bucky had silently but firmly inserted himself into her life and that damage was irreparable. She couldn’t imagine waking up without the heat of him surrounding her, or going through the day without his sharp wit and casual touches—and god forbid she lost those heated glances he shot her way whenever he thought she wasn’t paying attention! He understood her in a way she was certain no one else could and she, in turn, understood him; they worked well as a unit, accepting and supportive. Had two halves ever come together to form such a perfect whole? Which wasn’t to say they didn’t have their share of problems—because _god_ did they ever—but the truth was inescapable. Completely without meaning to, Emma had fallen in love.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, a pleased little grin twisting his lips as he read the emotions that flashed across her face. Singsong, he demanded, “Say it.”

Grumbling, embarrassed, she asked, “Is now really the best time?” It felt too soon; she’d only just realized and he was already trying to confront her about it. She needed time to think, to analyze, to dissect the emotion until she had it perfectly figured out. Hoping to derail his line of thought she cast about for a new topic—it wasn’t hard: he was mostly free of injury, but his prosthetic arm was still hanging listless and unresponsive at his side. “There’s something wrong with your arm.”

He quickly waived the concern away, instead pressing, “You were worried enough for me that you were willin’ to use a weapon _so_ terrifying you once nearly vomited at the mere memory of its effects.” A step closer, pressed nearly chest to chest as he looked down and softly told her, “Doll, if that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”

She looked away, but didn’t move. It would be easier to give in and admit to him what he wanted to hear, because if there was one thing she’d learned it was that he was persistent when it came to getting his way. But the words still sounded strange in her own mind, the concept foreign; she’d only just gotten used to the idea that they were _friends._ This would be a big leap to admit, and there would be no taking the words back once they were out—then again, the truth was still the truth regardless of whether she owned up to it. Stubbornly, she asked, “Are you really going to put me on the spot like this?”

He tilted her head to meet his gaze, grinning goofily as he replied, “If it helps at all, I love you.”

_“What?”_ Emma balked. “Since when?”

“I’m pretty sure since the moment you not so subtly implied where I could stick my generosity,” he laughed. “Didn’t come to terms with it until we started runnin’, though.”

Her world was tilting on its axis, breath pushing itself out of her lungs in an understated, “Huh.”

“And the thing is, I _know_ you love me back—frankly, you’re not the sort'a person who would put up with me unless you were emotionally involved. And you were just willin' to commit murder on my behalf so there’s no arguin' here.” He cupped her jaw with his good hand, thumb stroking over the swells of her rapidly flushing cheek. “You love me, and I wanna hear you say it.”

“I—” But the sentence died before she could shape it, throat closing tight.

“Emma,” he said, patient and gentle but firm, _“I love you.”_

The air punched out of her lungs again, making her reply gruff. “Yes, I heard you the first time. It’s just… this emotional stuff doesn’t come very naturally to me.”

Bucky’s smile relaxed, eyes becoming hooded. “It’s not that hard,” he reassured, leaning down as if to kiss her. “Just three simple words: I. Love. You.”

There was no hesitation in him, and she envied that. Despite their growing familiarity, Emma had still been trying to hold a part of herself back. In the tunnels, she’d regarded him as a known quantity, someone who would eventually be forced out of her life. It had seemed imperative then to hold herself aloof, if only so that she could heal from that inevitable separation. On the run, she’d relaxed those boundaries, allowed herself to depend on him in ways she’d never depended on anyone. However, even then she’d still held some reservations—they could still be forced apart and so some tiny bit of her brain had kept whispering that it would be dangerous to care about him. Only, she hadn’t been able to stop herself, had she? She _did_ care and there was no changing that fact, but it was still difficult for her to admit out loud. “It’s just—”

He cut her off, lips ghosting over hers as he murmured, “I love you, Emma.”

“Stop!” That was thrice now, each time in the same prideful and smug tone, and she hadn’t yet reciprocated even once. Bucky was trying to stir her up, and _god_ was it working. “Christ, you’re like a wind-up toy!” She swallowed roughly, tongue twisting, but she pushed herself forward. “A big, stupid wind-up toy that I put up with because, _despite_ my better judgement, I _do_ love you.”

His lips crashed into hers in a rough kiss, adrenaline still spiking through the both of them. The caress was hot, burning, but he pulled away before it could escalate. “See?” He rumbled, cocky smile back in place. “That wasn’t so hard. Although maybe next time, tone down the insults just a little. You could give a guy a complex, you know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And the trouble with small furry animals in a corner is that, just occasionally, one of them’s a mongoose." --Sir Terry Pratchett, 'Witches Abroad'.
> 
> Big thanks to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, particularly to BubbleBakerPenguinPie, PrimaDea, PedobearSmiles, jjgoodhope, and Meg for leaving comments!


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After taking stock of the situation, Bucky comes to an important conclusion.

With a little bit of team effort, Bucky and Emma managed to pile the bodies into the ravine. It was morbid work, but it helped make the carnage less apparent. A trained eye would still be able to find what was left of the agents, but there wasn’t much else the pair could do—if they’d had the time, a funeral pyre would have been ideal but it would slow them down too much. It was just as well that they couldn’t though, because a raging fire would have drawn a lot of attention they didn’t need especially since their situation was even more precarious now than ever before. Bucky was worried that Emma had reached a breaking point, too deeply mired in the struggle to survive to continue making objective decisions.

He frowned at that thought. No, that wasn’t quite right. It was him that had muddied her moral compass. He’d always regarded her affection as gruff—she got defensive when showing her soft side and that made her snappish. Talk about a snap, though! She’d been seconds away from committing brutal murder because of the realization that she loved him. That was the real danger of caring, wasn’t it? Not that it made you weak, but rather too strong and just this side of reckless. And he couldn’t fault her for that because hadn’t he done the _same_ thing? When the cards had been down in DC, when her safety had been at stake, he’d let the Winter Soldier out to handle the situation.

So there would be no blame, but it was rapidly becoming apparent that they couldn’t continue on their chosen course. But where to go from here? A small voice at the back of his thoughts told him that he already knew what they had to do, but he was trying valiantly to ignore it.

Just as he was trying to ignore his left arm. It hung from him in a sickening dead weight, inactive and useless at his side. The shock batons had utterly fucked it up, destroying whatever delicate system of relays had powered it in the first place. This was worse than when Captain America had popped his shoulder out of joint—at least he’d still been able to feel it then—right now it was just a foreign, metal pendulum weighing him down. It wasn’t the sort of injury that physically pained him, but it was crippling all the same. Even though he was naturally right handed, the loss of his cybernetic arm would make most tasks awkward at best—potentially fatal if they got into another altercation.

That idea made Bucky itch to know where the second team was. He carefully began skidding back into the ravine, intent on retrieving one of HYDRA’s radios. But with only one good hand, every movement devolved into frustrated fumbling. To distract himself, he called out to Emma, “So… Dr. Labelle, huh?”

She came to stand at the edge of the steep drop, watching him curiously. “Apparently,” she shrugged at his question, flippant. After a moment though her expression turned thoughtful, as if she was only just now registering that it was _her name._ “I was going by Levoux… french names, both starting with the same letter. You think my first name might be similar to Emma?”

“Could be,” he grunted, trying to shift the bodies around. _Of course_ there couldn’t have been a handheld right at the top of the pile; _that_ would have been _easy!_

She frowned at his stilted movements, finally asking, “What are you doing?”

“Tryin’ to grab one of these radios,” Bucky explained, at last closing his fingers around one. He quickly shoved it into a pocket and then turned back to face her. “Can’t hurt to know what our enemies are doin’.”

Emma got onto her knees, holding her hands out to help him back out of the ravine. After a brief struggle upward, she pointed to a fallen log and told him, “Sit. I want to check out your arm.”

“Far be it from me to second guess you here, but I thought you didn’t remember much of your scientific trainin’.” He still went over to the log though, pulling the radio back out so that he could start listening in to HYDRA’s movements.

She wasn’t impressed by this argument, snapping, “Do you want my opinion or not?”

He grinned, part of him enjoying the hell out of riling her up. “Ten bucks says it’s fried.”

“No shit,” she deadpanned. “Now take off your shirt.”

He gasped, tittering with fake modesty, _“Well, I never!”_

For a moment, he legitimately thought she was about to hit him, but she ruined the menacing look by snorting out a laugh. “You pick the worst times to crack jokes.”

Bucky slipped his coat off and shrugged out of his shirt, wincing at the cold air that greeted him. “I prefer to believe that my comedic timin’ speaks of an understated genius.”

Emma smiled at him like he was a dullard and ruffled his hair. “You just keep dreaming, darling.”

He watched as she examined the useless cybernetic monstrosity. She started with the joints, her fingers quick and light as she tested his range of motion. When that was finished, she carefully pried some of the plates apart, lifting the metal encasement so that she could take a peek inside. It must not have been good news, because at one look she blanched.

“Bad?” He asked mildly. There was no sense in getting upset over it, no matter how deeply the situation frustrated him; he’d already known there wouldn’t be anything she could do.

_“Very,”_ she heaved out a sigh and gave him a sympathetic look. “I mean, the carbon scorching _alone_ …” She trailed off, delicately tracing the displaced panels. “Plus your plate resistance is completely gone, all the servos are cracked or shattered, and the wire relays that I can see have been _fused_ together.” She sat back, her hands fisting in her lap, somehow looking disappointed in _herself_ despite the fact that HYDRA was completely to blame for this. “Even if I had the proper equipment and a working schematic, I don’t think this would be fixable.”

Bucky had been expecting that, but the news still made him break out into a sweat, the magnitude of his predicament pressing down on him. His arm wasn’t exactly common tech—it had to be _decades_ ahead of current medical practices. Was there anyone outside of HYDRA who could engineer a replacement? He had no doubt that once she got her memories back Emma could create something spectacular for him. But who knew how long that would take? He didn’t like the idea of stalling, of staying in this in-between state of reduced potential. Perhaps Steve knew someone—some former SHIELD scientist who wouldn’t be opposed to helping out an ex-HYDRA assassin. It was worth a shot, even if it pushed their timeline up.

Wanting to lighten the mood, he bumped shoulders with Emma and told her, “You owe me ten bucks.”

“First of all, we don’t have ten dollars to our name,” she pointed out snidely, her defensive posture easing. “Second, exactly what part of ‘no shit’ sounded like me taking your bet?”

Smart girl, through and through; he couldn’t help grinning at her. The look slipped after a few moments though. It was time to face the music, to acknowledge the thought that he’d been so studiously avoiding. Bucky let out a gusty sigh as he came to grips with his decision, shoulder slumping under the weight of its magnitude. “We’re gonna have to find Steve.”

She cocked her head curiously, reminding him, “You’ve still got four days.”

“Fuck that,” he laughed bitterly. “There’s no way in hell I’m goin’ toe-to-toe against another HYDRA team when I’ve only got one good arm at my disposal. I’d rather face a potential mental breakdown than do that again.” Never mind that he still didn’t feel ready, that he still didn’t have any clear memories of Steve other than their near-death ice skating experience from childhood. Objectively, he knew that finding Steve was their best option, their safest option—probably should have done it to begin with. It was difficult to swallow his pride on this one, though—he’d wanted to come off as something more than the broken shadow of Sergeant Barnes—but there was no helping it. Even if Bucky and Emma commandeered all the weapons they could lay their hands on, neither of them were in top form: his abilities were compromised and she was getting trigger happy. Whatever happened when he inevitably met Steve couldn’t be half so bad as what _would_ happen if they ran into another set of HYDRA agents.

“Hey,” Emma soothed, laying a gentle hand along one cheek, “I’m here for you. You’re not facing him alone.” She must have read his dark expression, guessed where his thoughts had gone, and he appreciated her support more so now than ever before. It shouldn’t have felt so frightening to reunite with his best friend, but there was just too much standing between him and Steve to know how that meeting would go. As if reading his mind, she continued, “And if he’s half as good of a person as everyone says he is, then he’s not going to judge you.”

Bucky leaned into her touch, but couldn’t stop a derisive, “It’s not _him_ that I’m worried about,” from slipping past his lips.

Her brows rose, clearly calling his bluff. Apparently, they’d been together long enough for her to learn his tells.

“All right, maybe a little,” he conceded, the ghost of a smile tweaking his lips. “But my larger concern is the Winter Soldier. What if I see Steve—my last mission target—and all’a HYDRA’s brainwashing comes screamin’ back?”

“Then we’ll fight it together,” she replied matter of factly. “You _want_ to change, Bucky, that counts for a lot.”

They drifted apart as he considered that. He _did_ want to change, it was the whole reason he’d slipped into the tunnels to begin with: to be free of HYDRA and all its reminders until he felt as if his thoughts were better organized. There was no denying that he’d made good progress—the closed off, muted machine that had gone underground was certainly not the open and personable man that had reemerged. But was that enough? Would he ever truly be free of the Winter Soldier? Then again… he’d resisted just now, hadn’t he? As that haze had begun to descend upon him he’d been able to pull away, to push it back into the recesses of his mind. Facing Steve couldn’t be any more difficult than that. And Emma was right: she’d be right there by his side, ready to help draw him out again if something went awry.

It was risky business, but what choice did they have?

* * *

Emma fashioned a sling out of a ripped shirt, ignoring Bucky’s grumbles and groans as she placed a rolled towel along the side of his neck and tied the sling into place. It took a little maneuvering to get the lifeless metal arm into a good position, but she eventually managed it. She was aware that he didn’t like the picture it presented—preemptively calling attention to injury rankled the soldier—but she’d insisted. Though there wasn’t much organic tissue there to suffer further damage, he didn’t need to struggle with the counterbalance the prosthetic arm would create if left to swing free. Also, she was fairly certain that there was enough of his natural shoulder left in there to be concerned about the stress all that dead weight would cause.

She quieted his fussing by flicking his ear and then whispering, “I love you.” His good hand automatically rose to soothe the sting, but he didn’t look at all chagrined. If anything, Bucky was glowing with pride. And wasn’t that strange? Who else on earth would be happy that a subterranean, homeless amnesiac held affection for them? Then again who, other than her, would be so thrilled to know that an amnesiac ex-assassin loved her back? They were a odd pair, no doubt about it.

After checking to make sure that the majority of their supplies had survived the fray, Emma turned and finally asked, “So what now? We’re in the middle of the woods; your decision to go find Steve couldn’t have come at a worse time. Should we double-back?”

Bucky was still listening intently to the handheld, but he lowered it at the sound of her voice. “HYDRA will be on our asses now,” he replied firmly. Then rolled his eyes and continued, “Not that these guys were exactly _elite forces,_ but their extended radio silence _will_ be noticed.”

She hadn’t thought of that, particularly given their remote location. All sorts of unsavory things could happen to the unwary; Mother Nature was cruel to the incautious. Would HYDRA assume that their agents had met an unfortunate, albeit natural, end? Or would they simply flood the woods with manpower to find out for sure what had happened? Swallowing around a tight throat, she wondered aloud, “Do you think they’ll send in reinforcements?”

“None of these morons called the altercation in,” he shrugged, relief evident in his voice; their lives could have been made a whole lot more difficult if those six soldiers had been more disciplined, “so I’d be willin’ to bet only a scouting party gets dispatched.”

That made her frown, recalling earlier conversations. “I thought the second team _was_ a scouting party.”

“So did I,” he laughed humorlessly, “but there’s no local chatter on this line.” Which was true; the radio was eerily silent, interrupted only by short bursts of Morse code. No instructions, no check-ins, no voices at all. Were they alone in the woods? “Unless that other team already took off, I’m beginnin’ to think that maybe they’re not HYDRA.”

That would be a blessing, would lessen the feeling of dire panic escalating between them. Then again, just because those people weren’t HYDRA didn’t mean they could be trusted. Emma had learned a long time ago to keep to herself, that struggling might be more difficult but it was safer than confronting the unknown. Right now they didn’t exactly have a choice—Bucky was injured and their enemies were closing in—but it still seemed foolhardy to view these strangers lightly. “If not HYDRA, then who?”

“Well, still no helicopters so probably not Search And Rescue.” He set down the radio, cursing as he fumbled around with his pockets until he managed to withdraw his trail map. “Could be law enforcement or park rangers, maybe even conservationists that mistook us for poachers. Whoever they are, they might be able to radio for transportation, get us out of here ASAP.” He studied the map for several long minutes—she had absolutely no clue how he found it at all useful given that they didn’t even have a compass and hadn’t seemed to be following a particular route. But whatever system Bucky had been using clearly worked because he seemed to know exactly where everyone was. He pointed to a trail near the river they’d camped alongside and told her, “I last saw sign of the others around here, headin’ off in this direction.” His finger meandered mostly northward. “If we cut through this little valley to our west,” Emma couldn’t make heads or tails of the map, and the section he was pointing to now looked exactly like every other section to her, “we could probably catch up to them in just a few hours.”

She rolled her shoulders and considered that. They had no way of knowing who these people were or what they wanted. What if they weren’t agents but somehow in HYDRA’s pocket? Bucky could still fight, even with only one arm, but the chances of the two of them getting injured this time around would be a lot higher. She didn’t want to invite an altercation when their defenses were already down. On the other hand, getting out of the forest seemed like a top priority—the faster they got out, the sooner someone could figure out what to do about his arm. On their own, it would still take days yet to reach civilization. Approaching strangers was risky, but it had the _potential_ to pay off. That knowledge didn’t stop her from sharing her concerns, though. “While I’m absolutely on board with getting the hell out of Dodge, I’m not sure it’s a great idea to find these people.”

“We haven’t gotta lot’a choice here, sweetheart,” he replied, mouth twisting in sympathy. “I’m partially crippled and your idea of bein’ responsible for my safety is kinda terrifyin’.”

Emma was still surprised that he’d taken her unimaginable hostility in stride. She’d threatened to murder three men in the _worst_ way possible, and all he’d done was gently remind her of her vow never to see it happen again. A lesser man might have found her behavior sickening, might have seen her in a darker and more gruesome light, but Bucky understood temptation. He struggled with his own darkness, that mechanical apathy that made it easy not to become emotionally involved. She appreciated his intervention, but she wouldn’t apologize for her actions—and, deep down, she knew he didn’t _expect_ her to. However, he apparently was going to go out of his way to make sure she was never placed in that position again.

“I’ll just use the gun then,” she replied, “if that makes you happy.” Which was a lie, and she felt wretched for telling it. The truth was simply that she would do whatever it took to make sure he survived this struggle of theirs. If that meant utilizing the very weapon that had destroyed her life, then so be it. Besides, there was something poetic about using the LPBs against the very organization that had forced her to create them in the first place.

Unaware of her thoughts, Bucky scratched the back of his neck and told her, “Which reminds me—when everything is said and done, we’re findin’ you a practice range.” At her incredulous look he grinned, tutting, “ _No, no, no,_ don’t get me wrong. You’re doin’ fantastic under the circumstances. _A+_ , really.”

_“Seriously?”_ She asked him, eyes wide, jaw hanging slack. _“Now_ seems like the appropriate time for critique?” Would wonders never cease? He was a veritable font of inappropriately timed conversation topics.

“No,” he drawled, clearly unable to help himself, “but you _do_ pull to the left, so…”

Emma shook her head, chuckling helplessly. “You are the weirdest man I have ever met.”

His grin twisted wider, playful. “But you love me.”

“God help us both.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember at the beginning of the story when I said I was working several chapters ahead of what was being posted? Yeah, I've been steadily eating through that buffer as the story's progressed; I barely finished this chapter in time to be posted. Life has gotten a little busier with the nicer weather, so I don't find myself with the same amount of time to write as I did a month or two ago. I hate to do this, but I'm going to have to pull back updates to once a week until either A) I work a small buffer back up or B) I finish the story. That said, posts will probably come on Tuesdays or Wednesdays, I haven't quite decided. Apologies all around, my lovelies.
> 
> Big, big thanks to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, especially to PrimaDea, Ramadiii, BubbleBakerPenguinPie, Monokhrome, Meg, aorangeinboston, PedobearSmiles, pinkshirt, and Rogers_Girl for leaving comments!


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two groups inevitably catch up to one another.

Emma felt like she was chewing her nails down to the quick as they cut through the little western valley. She couldn’t stop the tide of nervousness rising within her. Objectively, she knew this was their best option, the safest way for them to get out of the forest, but she still had reservations. Just because these guys might not be HYDRA didn’t mean they weren’t still dangerous. What if it was law enforcement come to arrest trespassers, or militant activists who would shoot at first sight? There were so many possibilities, so many things that could go wrong.

Of course, if she was being honest, she had to admit that there was a deeper issue at play. The truth was that even though they’d left the tunnels behind a week and a half ago, she still had yet to rejoin society; HYDRA agents and shop clerks aside, Bucky was the only person she’d talked to in years. Her social graces were shot, to say the least. And it would be a big adjustment too when they finally did become part of the world again. She couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d told her—superpowers, advanced tech, and aliens. How was anyone meant to take that in? The world she’d left behind wasn’t the world she’d be rejoining, and that worried her. There was so much that she’d forgotten, so much _more_ that she didn’t even yet know… it was overwhelming. Out here, on the run, she’d felt safe—civilization had been a distant maybe, something they’d trekked through but not taken part of—but this was the end of an era. There would be no more hiding, no more passivity; she would have to accept what it meant to be a person again.

The idea shook her to her core. She had wanted to relearn her sciences, to explore the factual gaps in her knowledge, but this was something else. The emotional, personality driven things she’d forgotten frightened her now with their tangibility. Before she’d heard the name Dr. Labelle, Emma had been free to be whoever she wanted. Now there was a starting place, a precedence, and she wasn’t entirely certain that she really desired to know. What if there was someone waiting for her? What if there was _no one_ waiting for her? Had she been a good person, or cold and distant like the HYDRA goon had implied? She didn’t want to fill any previously worn shoes if it meant being anyone other than who she was right now. But if she did manage to repossess all that missing knowledge, would she be obligated to use it, to go back into the field? A part of her was itching with curiosity, but a more cynical piece of her was gun-shy about entering a proper lab once more—just look at the terror she’d created the last time she’d been in one!

Bucky shot her a sideways look. “Y’know,” he drawled, interrupting her thoughts, “if you keep makin’ that suckin’ lemons expression, your face is gonna get stuck like that. Such a shame too, because you usually have this serene beauty about you.”

It was a struggle just to make her expression neutral again. Then, playfully picking an argument just to have something to talk about, she asked him, “Are you implying that I stop being pretty when I think?”

_“No,”_ he laughed incredulously, “I’m tellin’ you that your emotional distress is not only apparent but really easy to read.”

Emma smiled at that because she had a pretty good suspicion he was the only one who would find her an open book—he’d put in quite a lot of effort to get to know her, after all. “This is your roundabout way of asking me what’s on my mind, isn’t it?”

“Both solicitous and vaguely offensive,” he gestured grandly, beaming. “The patented Bucky Barnes approach.”

“Are you sure you’re not one of those aliens you mentioned?” She asked, fighting down a laugh. There was something to be said for being unique, but sometimes he was so out of step with what she knew of society that it left her completely bemused. It was hard to attribute his quirks appropriately—were they generational hold-backs, a side-effect of the long endured brainwashing, or just genuinely him?

Bucky laughed where she held herself back, clearly using the moment to relieve any lingering stress—his left arm was troubling him deeply and he was trying very hard not to show it. “One hundred percent New Yorker, whatever that counts for.” A pause as they ambled companionably then, as inevitable as the sunrise, he pressed, “So… what’s up?”

Her teeth sank into the plushness of her bottom lip, a nervous gesture she couldn’t quite control. This was a difficult subject for her to broach, but if anyone would be capable of understanding, it was him. “What if I’m not Emma?”

“Chances are good it’s not your given name,” he shrugged, misunderstanding the question, “but that doesn’t mean you can’t still go by Emma if you wanna.”

She shook her head jerkily and tried to clarify, “No, I mean… I’ve got a last name now and what if, while looking deeper into the life I once led, I find out that Dr. Labelle wasn’t anything like who I am right now?”

Understanding finally dawned. “Well first, you’ve got to stop disassociating yourself from your past identity. Dr. Labelle wasn’t— _isn’t_ —a separate person; you are one and the same,” he told her firmly. “But the thing about personality is that it’s constantly evolving—just because you were somethin’ _before_ doesn’t mean you have to be _again_. You have the freedom to choose, Emma; it’s not like the past is gonna overtake and possess you.”

“You worry about that, though,” she pointed out.

Bucky turned to face her and very carefully replied, “I’ve endured decades of brainwashing, so it’s a bit of a different situation, psychologically speakin’. That said,” he spared a glance toward his inactive arm, “it wouldn’t hurt for me to take some’a my own advice.”

Emma struggled to reorganize her thoughts, to view her concerns in a different light. “I guess I’m just worried about what I’m going to find,” she shrugged after a while.

“That’s natural,” he returned lightly, “but you don’t have to let any of it inform who you are as a person. You’ve been through hell, sweetheart, and that’s shaped who you are today; it’s not unreasonable to expect that that’s gonna supersede all past events.”

That last pearl of wisdom finally allowed everything to shift into focus. He was right, after all. She’d willingly endured _years_ of confused isolation—that would be enough to change anyone. Even if Dr. Labelle… No, even if _she_ had been as aloof and rational as she suspected, her time in the tunnels had still left their mark. After so many years of being alone, it seemed natural that she should want to be socially involved now, and that she would take a more emotionally invested approach to her companions. The fact that she now had a hint to her past didn’t change her new-found philosophy that it was best to focus on the future. If she was determined to keep moving forward, then what did it matter who she’d once been?

With her thoughts now somewhat settled, she murmured, “That’s surprisingly comforting.”

Bucky raised his brows in mock offense. “ _Surprisingly?_ I think I’m a little insulted.” His brows instantly shot down into a tight expression as he caught sight of something, and he crouched low to get a better look. “Hold up. I recognize these tread patterns—it’s our mysterious second group.”

Emma stopped in her tracks and tried to see the scene from is perspective. To her it just looked like a slightly muddy field; there were footprints here and there, but she wouldn’t have been confident in saying that the two of them hadn’t created those themselves. He had to see something more though, or at least understand it better, because his piercing eyes had focused with intense interest. Not wanting to be left out of his conclusions, she asked, “Can you tell anything about them?”

“There’s only three in this group,” he replied, pointing to three different footprints. Then, indicating a specific set—or at least she assumed so, even though it didn’t look all that different to her—he continued, “One keeps breakin’ off to scout ahead—either impatient or paranoid—but never goes far from the others before doublin’ back. I’m guessin’ Antsy Pants is a woman; either that, or somebody’s got teeny tiny feet.”

“And the other two?”

“Tall, maybe heavy set,” he guessed quietly, his attention turned to the remaining tracks, “their footprints are big and go deep. Clearly no one was concerned about keepin’ a low profile; there was absolutely no effort made to conceal their tracks. Not that the last team did that, but…” He trailed off, focusing intently, his eyes dutifully tracing the lines of each print in sight.

After his silence stretched out just a little too long, she felt the need to prompt, “But?”

“No uniform treads,” he replied, smiling as if that were excellent news when she she couldn’t make heads or tails of its significance. “We got a set'a work boots, hiking boots, and probably a pair’a women’s sneakers—which means these weren’t standard issue _anything_. Takin’ that into consideration, I’d say it’s a safe bet to rule out law enforcement and paramilitary groups.”

Emma sighed heavily, a little disappointed at his assessment. “I was really hoping they were park rangers.”

Bucky looked up to reply, but his gaze got caught somewhere behind her. He stood abruptly, drawing close to a tree as he told her, “I think we found somethin’ better, doll.”

She followed, curious what had him so excited. Something had been sketched into the tree trunk—a crude little carving of a large-nosed man peeking over a wall, above which was a short series of letters. Feeling lost again, she asked, “KWH? What’s that?”

“Kilroy was here,” he smiled wide, a touch of nostalgia in his voice. “It was a popular message to graffiti across the battlefront, a sort of friendly beacon to the allies comin’ in behind you.”

The significance of that was not lost on her. Who in the whole-wide world would send dated references as a message to Bucky? She felt a smile of her own bloom as she concluded, “Steve is looking for you.”

“Either that,” he laughed, nervousness held at bay by what was ostensibly a friendly gesture, “or we’re trackin’ down an incredibly lost group of World War II enthusiasts.”

They began following the trail left behind, which seemed to be veering back the way Bucky and Emma had come. She briefly thought about how funny it would be if they were all circling around each other, but the part of her that just really wanted out of the forest found it more frustrating than anything else. Of course, she had to swallow that frustration down because when they finally did find Steve’s group, Bucky got cold feet and pleaded to just observe them for a few moments while he gathered his thoughts. She understood, even sympathized with his nervousness, but at this point it was just delaying the inevitable. Still, she hid behind the rocky outcrop with him, letting the minutes tick by as he became increasingly more agitated.

Emma turned away from him—allowing whatever sort of privacy she could while they were huddled so close—and turned her attention to the three strangers in front of her. Two men and a woman, just like Bucky had said. The woman was on the willowy side, petite and fey-looking; her hair was short, bright, and curly, it’s lustrous ruby sheen complimenting her fair skin. She seemed relaxed in these woods, unaffected by the cold, a barely-there smile curling her lips as she casually bumped shoulders with one of the men.

The man in question was not particularly tall, but he was very solidly built; his sable limbs were tight with impressive muscle. All that strength was practical too—like Bucky’s—and if his close cropped hair and proper posture were anything to go by, she was guessing he was former military. He followed the woman’s line of sight, rolling his dark eyes as he watched their third companion work.

The other man was more or less the poster boy for the all-American hero, what with the blond hair, blue eyes and honest expression—she was assuming this was Steve. He was massive in a way she hadn’t expected: ungodly tall with broad, broad shoulders that gave way to narrow hips. Comparing the two super soldiers, she got very different pictures—Bucky had a leanness to him that was not in any sense present in Steve. It was clear they’d been engineered for entirely different purposes. Steve held himself like a natural born leader, a triumph of will over nature, while Bucky was more whippish, still demonstrably _strong_ but suited more to stealth and subterfuge. It was absolutely amazing to see the two of them so close, to understand that destructive power and yet see the gentleness in both of them. For all his strength, Steve was currently doing his best to delicately pick out another Kilroy with a small pocket knife.

“Never took you as the type to deface public property,” the redhead called over.

Steve winced, the frown he’d already been entertaining deepening as if it physically pained him to be hurting the young tree. In a somewhat beleaguered tone, he replied, “I’m not thrilled to be doing it, if that helps preserve your image of me.”

The other man drew closer, shaking his head in exasperation. “At this point,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose frustratedly, “I’m more concerned with maintaining any sort of belief that you’re still a sane man.”

Steve scanned his Kilroy, trying to find fault with it and shrugging when none became apparent. “It’s the most nonthreatening message I can send that he might actually be able to recognize.”

“You’re just going to dance around the elephant in the room, aren’t you?” His companion sighed deeply. Underneath the frustration there seemed to be a lurking pity—this man was trying to be a realist, to keep Steve from getting his hopes up, and he was probably worried what heartbreak the future might bring. “Fine, I can be the guy to ask the tough questions. What do you think you’re going to find?”

“I _want_ to find my friend,” Steve replied, thumbing the final touches on his small carving. Satisfied with his results, he turned to face the other two and very seriously returned with, “What I think I’m _going_ to find is a very confused man who needs our help. And if there is even the _slightest_ possibility that we can reach out to him, then the last couple of months will have been worth it.”

“ _Help_ him?” The man spluttered. “Did you not see the trail of corpses he and his buddy left behind? He doesn’t seem to need any more help, if you ask me.”

Bucky roused at that statement, but only to draw further into himself it seemed. Emma winced—wholesale murder certainly wasn’t a good first impression, but they hadn’t been left with much of a choice. She had a feeling that this overheard conversation was going to set them back; Bucky was going to need a couple extra minutes to work up his nerve now.

The woman shrugged nonchalantly, apparently unconcerned by the carnage they had found. In a bored voice, she interjected, “To be fair, it was a ditch not a trail, and they were all confirmed HYDRA agents.”

“And that makes it better?” The man asked her incredulously.

“If he _has_ defected then they’ll be hunting him,” Steve interrupted the brewing argument, throwing his own two cents in. “His trail has consistently led us to areas of isolation—he’s not trying to cause a scene or get into contact with anyone. What we saw back there was probably just self-defense.”

“For your sake, I hope it was,” the man replied, rubbing a weary hand over his eyes. “This whole thing is going to be hard enough without you making that face.”

Steve frowned, genuinely confused, and asked, “What face?”

“The one you always make at Stark,” his companion smiled crookedly, a little dumbfounded that Steve didn’t seem to know what he was talking about.

The woman pulled a serious expression, perfectly mirroring the look of a stern father attempting to lecture a wayward youth. In a mockingly deep voice, she gravely intoned, “I’m not _angry_ with you, I’m just _disappointed_.” Then, apparently trying to get a potshot in, “On behalf of _America_.”

The other man started cracking up, blurting out, _“That’s it!”_ between peels of laughter.

Now it was Steve’s turn to pull a weary hand over his face. As if seeking guidance, he looked to the heavens and asked, “Why do I always attract the weirdos?”

“Pressure release,” the woman informed him, letting her act drop away. “Your ingrained sense of straight-laced morality would eventually pop your head clean off if not for people like us.”

“That was rhetorical,” Steve jibbed lightly, “but it’s nice to see you opening up. Even if it is just to mock me.”

Emma leaned in closer to her own companion, quietly whispering, “They seem nice.” There was clear camaraderie between the three, and that made them somehow more approachable.

But Bucky was tight lipped and still tense. When he did answer, all that came out was a tired and uncertain, “Yeah.”

“Bucky,” she slipped her hand into his and drew his attention away from the group in front of them, “Steve _wants_ to help and we can’t hide forever.”

“I know, it’s just…” He floundered, his fingers tightening around her own as he tried to sort his thoughts out. “I planned for this, but for the longest time it felt like the day would never come. And now it’s here and it feels like it’s _way_ too soon.”

She understood his hesitation, in some sense she even shared it—the idea of rejoining society had her in a cold sweat—but they were out of time. Gently, she replied, “You can’t take responsibility for the future, darling. What’s going to happen will happen, so you might as well seize the moment and get the worst of it over with.” She paused though, and considered the casual way that Steve and Company had armed themselves, asking, “You don’t think they’ll mistake us for bad guys, do you?”

Bucky darted a glance at her, then turned his piercing eyes to assess potential threat. “I’m not sure about military man there,” he said after a quick scan, “but Steve certainly doesn’t have it in him to attack without provocation and the redhead spotted us a couple'a minutes ago.” He didn’t seem surprised at that, even though it left her wondering why the other woman had chosen to sit on that information. “We’re probably in the clear.”

Emma sucked in a quiet breath, trying to steel her own nerves. “Then we should go now.”

But Bucky tensed anew, becoming so rigid that she was worried he’d hurt himself. “Just a few more minutes,” he stalled.

She let her breath out, deflating. “All right,” she capitulated, unable to force the issue when he seemed so suddenly fragile, “but if we wait much longer, they’re going to leave and we’ll be stuck in the woods without any help.”

As if sensing her words, the dark-skinned man began to speak to Steve again. “I know it’s hard to draw a line when your best friend comes back from the dead in the form of a murderous cyborg, but I think it’s time to reevaluate the situation.” He pointed to the ground, indicating a set of footprints that must not have belonged to the trio. “Right now, we are just going around in circles. We’re literally following _them_ following _us_.”

“I think I have to agree with Sam on this one, Cap,” the woman threw in, her eyes briefly darting toward the outcrop where Bucky and Emma were pressed together.

But Steve just shook his head and replied, “Bucky doesn’t _want_ to be found and I don’t think he’s going to instigate a confrontation.” They both shot him a disbelieving look, which he seemed to take a bit of offense at, snapping, “Trust me. I do have _some_ tracking experience, you know.”

“No offense, Cap, but Nazis were kind of thick on the ground back in your day.” The woman turned bodily to point at Bucky and Emma—apparently done with keeping secrets—and smiled patronizingly at Steve. “It was a little less tracking and a lot more walking straight from one fight into the next.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be on the safe side, I'd like to say that I haven't seen Age of Ultron yet, so please no spoilers!
> 
> Big thanks to everyone who has bookmarked or left kudos, especially to BubbleBakerPenguinPie, Monokhrome, PrimaDea, jjgoodhope, Meg, PedobearSmiles, zai_make_it_awesome, hiphop69, and ZombieMart for all leaving comments! Also, thank you to everyone for being so understanding and supportive about the change in my updating schedule; hopefully next week's chapter will come out a little sooner.


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky has a crisis of faith, but Emma knows how to get him through it.

Bucky’s vision tunneled until all he could see was Steve resolutely standing in place, patiently waiting for him to make the first move. At some point he must have shot to his feet because his vantage had changed, but his senses were only picking up the world in surreal fits and phases. This was it, the culmination of months of hard work and struggle—his endgame so close he could reach out and touch it.

But everything else was wrong. He wasn’t confident in his own mental state and he didn’t remember anything from the past—he wasn’t anywhere near the man he’d hoped to be on this day. His failure was overwhelming, a bitter, ashy taste in his mouth. How could he hope to stand next to the paragon of all that was good in this world and not somehow taint it? He was a monster, a bogeyman that bled in and out of the shadows; he had no right to this brief moment of reconciliation. His sole purpose on this Earth had been narrowed down to destroying the man in front of him.

As he stood rooted to the spot, a thick haze began to curl around Bucky’s panicking thoughts, whispering to him in HYDRA’s sibilant tones. _“Target: Steve Rogers, commonly known as Captain America.”_ Everything went quiet at those words, his mind filling with the gentle hum of white noise.

Target identified.

_“Objective: termination.”_

Mission interrupted. Insufficient data conveyed pertaining to the subject—something had been left out of the Winter Soldier’s dossier. His knowledge was incomplete. A crucial detail had been glossed over.

_“The timeline has been moved up.”_

Kill now? But he was pursuing this gap in intell! How could he be expected to do his job when someone else had fallen down on theirs and given him incomplete files? This wasn’t a sniper’s mission, but rather a close kill—HYDRA wanted Captain America to knowingly die by the Winter Soldier’s hands for some reason. The Asset refused to make that kill until he understood why. Only…

Only, he knew that, didn’t he? He’d found out the reason. The Winter Soldier was a complete fabrication; his real name was Bucky Barnes and he’d once been so close to Steve Rogers that they could have been brothers. HYDRA had stolen him, torturing his body and mind in an effort to create the polar opposite of Steve out of relatively the same base material. But Bucky was free now to do and be whatever he wanted—and if he desired to pierce the gauzy veil of his past, he would need the help of the man in front of him.

The haze receded, leaving him tired, emotionally strained. Bucky hadn’t even been able to fight the cold logic of the Winter Soldier that time, yet the episode had been brief. Even the Soldier seemed to understand the importance of this moment. It was a small victory that left him raw—his thoughts flayed open and bleeding sluggishly—but it _was_ a victory nonetheless. ‘Healing is a process,’ Emma’s words from weeks ago— _months ago?_ —floated up to him. He was progressing, healing, there was no denying that, and it was time now to take the next big step.

Bucky sent up a brief prayer that he could survive this without any more input from The Asset. He wouldn’t be strong enough to endure it a second mental lapse. His head was swimming, the world coming to him in fuzzy saturations of color. With a start he realized he’d been holding his breath, starving himself of oxygen, like a diver gone far too deep. He drew in a shaky breath, filling his lungs greedily, but when he tried to speak everything froze, lungs and vocal chords caught in a terrified paroxysm.

“This is going well,” the other man—the one the woman had called Sam—muttered. His voice echoed dimly in Bucky’s ears, as if the words had come from a very long way off. He wanted to smile at the tone—this guy seemed like a straight-shooter and he had a feeling that they’d get along just fine—but his mind was more or less clicking along without his body at this point.

Steve flashed a quick frown, letting out a warning, “Sam.”

Sam, however, was unmoved by the admonishing. Instead, he rolled his eyes, drummed his fingers on his legs, and sarcastically added, “Five straight minutes of silence, not like that’s _weird_ or anything.”

The woman bumped shoulders with Sam, teasing, “So much compassion coming from the man who leads therapy groups for veterans.” But her eyes were trained to Bucky all the while, only darting away to assess Steve’s body language. It didn’t look like she was armed with any serious firepower, but Bucky got the feeling that if he made the wrong move this redhead would drop him in an _instant_. He found that comforting for some reason, like a fail-safe if the worst should happen.

“This is a confusing situation for everyone,” Steve said loudly, attempting to settle the growing chatter, “just give him time.”

Sam clearly took that as a challenge, turning bodily to Steve as he asked, “Is this what guilt looks like on Captain America? You’re just going to give him whatever he wants, aren’t you?”

It was such a strange moment—understanding, needling, and caution all rolled into one—and it reminded Bucky how effortless friendship could be. He wanted that, wanted to know people that he could joke with and tease and look out for. That desire was what finally unstuck his tongue. “Y'know,” he drawled, “what I’d really like is for all'a you to stop talkin’ like I can’t _hear_ you. I’m confused, not deaf.”

They were a gallery of sheepish faces, none more pronounced than Steve. He swallowed roughly, cautiously addressing Bucky for the first time in months. “You look pretty put together from here—better than the last time I saw you.”

There was an awkward pause and Bucky realized that neither of them really knew what to do. They were both waiting on signals from each other without any functional knowledge of what those signals might be. Antsy now, he asked, “So what, we just shake hands and make amends? How does this work?”

Steve didn’t budge, but his arms twitched as if he wanted to scale the outcrop instead of vaguely shout at each other. Instead, he simply returned with a pained, “How do you want it to work?”

Something shifted in his peripheral vision, reminding him for the first time in several long minutes that Emma was standing right beside him. She was shaking her head in exasperation, hands planted firmly on her hips as she regarded the present company. “Well,” her voice was shot through with strained politeness, but there was just enough of her steely stubborn spine present to let him know she’d lost her patience and was taking charge, “this is the dullest clash of titans I’ve ever witnessed. I’m walking down this hill now, Bucky.” She pointed a finger threateningly at him, adding, “And if you don’t follow me, I’m coming back up and _rolling_ your ass down it.”

He could kiss her for taking initiative. As much as he’d appreciated her understanding, it was a relief to now have someone actively attempting to move this awkward meeting along. In her own way, Emma fully understood his hesitations, but she was also aware that the only way he would _really_ heal was to pursue this friendship with Steve. Beyond the simple factor of wanting to get out of the woods, she had his best interests at heart and wasn’t going to let him back away from this opportunity.

Didn’t stop him from teasing, though. “You’re not usually this impatient.”

She rolled her eyes, letting out a dramatic huff as she played along with his abrupt tonal shift. “That was before you made me lay on the cold ground for minutes on end while you agonized about accepting the inevitable.” He loved that about her: even when playing around she served up the cold hard truth—it was hard not to find that admirable.

Steve didn’t quite seem to catch the underlying mischievousness of their barbs, however. Looking conflicted, he started to say, “He has a right to—”

But Emma cut him off, holding her hands up in the universal gesture of non-confrontation. “I’m not trying to be insensitive here,” she assured him, “but it’s clear that you two need a push, and I’d rather leave these woods before the next HYDRA team stumbles across us.”

Steve looked as hopeful as Bucky felt, yet still neither of them moved.

“I’ve always known Steve to be solicitous,” the redhead sighed, shooting a slight frown in her companion’s direction, “but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this indecisive.”

Emma locked eyes with the other woman and a moment passed between them, some sort of silent communication ebbing and flowing between the two as they made a decision together. After a drawn out silence they gave each other almost imperceptible nods, and then there was a flurry of movement. Emma had hooked her arm through Bucky’s good one and was dragging him down the the hill; meanwhile the redhead had done much the same to Steve, with Sam trailing behind in amusement.

They met in the middle, and Emma moved to the side and slightly behind Bucky as she made introductions. “Bucky, Steve; Steve, Bucky. I’m sure we’ll regale you with all manner of outlandish tales regarding our hobo-themed misadventures, but we haven’t the time just now. Do you have access to transportation? He’s injured.”

The trio’s eyes collectively zeroed in on his sling, stunned silence filling the air as if they’d only just _now_ noticed. There were no questions about what exactly was wrong with the cybernetic arm or what had happened to damage it—either they guessed for themselves, or didn’t rightly want to know. After another imperceptible nod the redhead broke away from the pack, walking a few paces away as she pulled out a radio and began a quiet conversation with whoever was on the other end.

* * *

Emma stood close to Bucky, fighting down the urge to fidget as _Captain America’s_ curious gaze assessed her. He was _huge_ up close, bulky and lean all at once, and taller even than Bucky. And yet he held himself with a grace and honesty, a certain sheepishness that made him instantly trustworthy. For a very brief moment after seeing Bucky up close his expression had been open and eager, but now he was covering his face with a large hand. Emma assumed he’d been overcome by emotion, relief perhaps—after all, who _wouldn’t_ be overwhelmed in his position?—until she noticed his shoulders were shaking. There was a muffled sound coming from behind his hand, like a wheezing snort that he was politely trying to smother. He was laughing at them!

Emma felt her eyes go wide. How was someone supposed to react when a superhero laughed in their face? It wasn’t a mean or a snide laugh, though; it sounded more helpless, maybe even a little exasperated. Perhaps the sudden stress release was taking its toll on him.

Steve’s mirth eventually subsided and he lowered his hand, revealing a sheepish, if somewhat knowing grin. With a shake of his head, he said to Bucky, “I might have known. Nothing ever really changes, does it?” Yet he sounded delighted by that fact. Still, he didn’t dwell on whatever seemed to be amusing him so deeply. Instead, he turned his attention back to Emma, offering a hand as he introduced himself,  “Steve Rogers.”

Her fingers were completely dwarfed by his, but his touch was so gentle that it was astounding. “Emma Lev—” She caught herself, shook her head, and tried again, “Emma Labelle.” And if the trio thought it was weird that she’d nearly goofed her _own name_ , no one said anything about it.

Glossing over what could have been an awkward pause, the man just behind Steve decided to introduce himself as well. “Sam Wilson.”

She gave him a wave since they were too far apart to shake hands, then turned toward the other woman. Just as she was about to ask someone for the redhead’s name, the woman in question returned to the group, sliding her radio back into its hidden pocket.

“Natasha,” she offered simply—even from several paces off, she’d apparently been able to keep track of the conversation. Turning to Steve, she reported, “He’s got a ranger’s truck heading out now. Said it’ll go down the eastern trail and meet us about half a mile from here.”

Steve made a pained face, as if he’d bitten into something unexpectedly sour. “ _He?_ Don’t tell me you called _Stark_.”

“What choice do we have?” Natasha shrugged unsympathetically and pointed to Bucky. “It’s not like we can take him to a hospital. Stark’s got state of the art facilities, and he’s the only person outside of HYDRA’s control that’s likely to understand anything about that arm.”

Emma dearly wanted to be a fly on the wall during that procedure. From her very first glimpse, she’d been _fascinated_ by Bucky’s advanced prosthetic and she desperately wanted to learn everything about it. It would be impossible to remain clinically detached during the process since her feelings were far too deeply involved, but she was willing to go to great lengths to make sure Bucky got the help he deserved.

“He’s going to treat Bucky like a grade school science experiment,” Steve snapped, interrupting her thoughts.

“Dr. Banner’s probably still there,” Sam piped up. “We could get him to sit in the corner and fill the lab with quiet disapproval. That usually almost makes Stark behave.”

Natasha nodded, pointing to Steve and Bucky as she added, “And if both of you loom around him and make angry faces, he might even think twice before doing something stupid.”

Something about the name Stark had been niggling at the back of Emma’s thoughts and it finally clicked. “I’m sorry, are you talking about _Tony Stark_ , of Stark Industries?” She boggled a little. It was strange to hear them speak about one of the great forerunners of modern industry as if he were no better than a child. “I’ve always thought he was a respectable, if somewhat unconventional scientist.”

Steve paused and let out an uneasy laugh. It was obvious he didn’t want to inform anyone’s opinion, but couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Only until you get to know him.”

“Respect has a way of flying right out the door in Tony’s presence,” Sam smiled. “He _is_ brilliant, but a little infantile.”

Bucky shifted anxiously at her side, mumbling, “As long as his inventions work better than his father’s.”

Steve shrugged. “I’m not sure his particular genius is a decent enough trade off for the full magnitude of his personality. But Nat’s right: he’s really the only person we know that might be able and willing to help.”

And that seemed to decide it. Whatever hesitations were still present—and Emma knew Bucky was less than thrilled at the idea of _anyone’s_ attention on his cybernetic arm—they were set aside out of necessity. As a group, the five of them started out eastward at an unhurried pace. The terrain was a little steeper in that direction, unstable hills of shale playing tricks on their footing. Between the uncertain ground and the counterweight of his inactive arm, Bucky was having a tough time staying upright. At every stumble, she saw him snarl at himself, jostling his left arm out of spite. She didn’t begrudge him the sentiment—he was frustrated and had been thrown into uncertain waters—but he was only making things harder on himself.

Eventually, and not for the first time, the inevitable happened: his left arm slid free of the sling, momentarily jerking him to the side with its unexpected dead weight. “Hold up,” he groused. “It’s slipped again.”

There was no way to comfort what ailed him, not out here in the woods; the best she could do was offer him a taste of what they deemed normal. Which meant arguing. “That sling might be a little on the unconventional side, but it’s perfectly serviceable,” she pointed out, helping him readjust his cybernetic arm. “If you would just stop fiddling with it, this would stop happening.”

“I’m not fiddling with it,” he returned childishly.

Emma gave him her best unimpressed frown and replied, “I just _watched_ you do it!”

“I absolutely did _not_ ,” Bucky insisted. Casting around, he glanced at Steve and pressed, “Help me out here. Did I or didn’t I?”

For his part, Steve looked thrilled to be included in something so unarguably domestic, but his reply was still careful and firm. “Words cannot even begin to describe how elated I am to see you again, Buck,” he smiled and shrugged, “but no power on God’s green earth will compel me to get in the middle of this.”

“Really,” Bucky deadpanned. “The illustrious Captain America cowed by a woman?”

Emma wasn’t quite sure if this was a test or just his way of killing time. She knew for a fact that Bucky didn’t remember much of his past, so he wasn’t necessarily speaking out of companionship. Was he trying to assess personality; getting a feel for how he should relate to Steve? He wasn’t acting defensive or hostile, so there was a certain amount of trust already at work, but it was hard to say how deeply that trust ran when Bucky himself didn’t seem to know.

“Damn straight,” Steve answered with an easy laugh. “And if you had a brain in that _thick_ skull of yours, you’d stop arguing with the lady.”

This interaction wasn’t easy on any of them, but Steve seemed to have an intrinsic understanding of what he was doing. Perhaps he was used to dealing with trauma victims, or he maybe was just banking on past interactions with Bucky to guide him; either way, she appreciated the relaxed attitude he was projecting. “Oh, I like him,” Emma interjected teasingly.

“Now that’s not fair,” Bucky replied, a goofy smile chasing away the dark look that had been souring his eyes. “Our relationship was built on a foundation of arguments. You’d still be hunkered down in your shanty if we hadn’t clashed.”

“True,” she nodded, “but I also wouldn’t be on HYDRA’s radar.”

She thought she heard Sam muffle an amused, “Ouch,” from somewhere behind them.

Emma fought down a smile, giving Bucky a comically serious frown. “All of which is a moot point. And don’t think you’re off the hook for messing with your sling; you’re not as good at misdirection as you seem to think.”

Natasha, who had been watching the exchange with rapt attention, turned to Steve at those final words. With an air of recrimination, she pointed out to him, “The brainwashed super-assassin got a girlfriend before you.”

“Thank you, Nat,” Steve sighed, a beleaguered sound that had Sam covering his face to hide a smile. “I’m aware.”

Natasha blinked, cocking her head. “But not surprised.”

A nostalgic smile curled his lips. “If you knew Bucky, you wouldn’t be either.”

“Now you’re just making excuses.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late chapter, everyone. Let's just assume that I'm going to be posting on Fridays from now on.
> 
> Since a question arose about my timeline here, I thought I should clarify. As I still haven't seen Ultron, and likely won't be able to until it hits DVD, I am assuming that this story is now non-canon compliant. As of this chapter (chpt. 20) we are about six month out from the events of The Winter Soldier (in other words, we went from late summer to early spring); all MCU events prior to that (all the previous movies) are being taken into account, but nothing after. (And since the TV shows aren't really crossing over into the movies all that much, I personally acknowledge that they're there but probably won't write them into the story.) So to sum up, this story was originally a Winter Soldier continuation but, in light of the ever expanding MCU, is now a post CA:TWS AU. 
> 
> Big thank yous to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, especially to Ramadiii, aorangeinboston, PedobearSmiles, Monokhrome, BubbleBakerPenguinPie, PrimaDea (I don't mind at all; thank you for sharing!), jjgoodhope, Meg, and zai_make_it_awesome for leaving comments!


	21. Non-Chapter Anouncement

Hello my lovelies! Sorry to interrupt your regularly scheduled reading; unfortunately, there will not be a chapter this week or next week. Things didn't fall in place these past few days as I'd hoped, so there wasn't much time for writing, and I would much rather delay the post than give you guys a rushed chapter. I would like to promise you a bigger chapter next week but I will be in Disney World, so chapter twenty-one likely won't be out until June 5th. I'm really very sorry for the inconvenience, and I beg everyone's patience during this little mini hiatus.

Fear not, though! There is a lot of fun stuff on the horizon for this story **—** Stark Tower, day trips to Brooklyn, Tony's mad scientist approach to healthcare, Emma and Steve bonding, Daily Affirmations With Dr. Banner, some more on Emma's past, perhaps a few walk-in cameos by more Avengers, etc **—** so there's no need to worry about major writer's block or story abandonment. I can't tell you how excited I am to write all that stuff I just mentioned and more! We are going to have so much fun once I get back from vacation!

Hang tight, everybody; I'll see you in two weeks!


	22. Chapter Twenty One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the woods finally behind them, Emma and Bucky begin considering the future.

The ranger’s truck met them exactly where Mr. Stark said it would, and they gratefully piled onto the wooden benches inside. Bucky managed to maneuver the both of them so that Emma was sandwiched between him and a metal cabinet. She was a little worried at that defensive posturing, but at the same time she understood it—they were in friendly company, but that didn’t mean he was letting his guard down. And, honestly, it wasn’t like she was letting hers down, either; she doubted the two of them would until they’d really settled into the normal world. It might have been nice though, if his shielding went a little further; she did appreciated his efforts, but she still felt curious eyes studying her.

Pressed into her little corner, Emma imagined she didn’t paint the picture anyone had expected. She was small next to her companion, road-weary, covered in the detritus of camping, and leaning fully into Bucky’s side since he was the only familiar touchstone in her life anymore. Had they expected a mercenary—some unscrupulous soul hired on by the ruthless Winter Soldier? Sam and Steve clearly had, if their baffled glances were anything to go by. Natasha was harder to read—her expression was closed off, hidden behind a wall of pleasant blankness—but Emma had a feeling she wasn’t quite as shocked.

The ride was slow going over the unsteady terrain, and at some point Emma must have drifted off because the next thing she knew Bucky was gently shaking her awake. They had left the woods behind, arriving at what looked like a small, private airport. A man met them out on the tarmac, a stocky and jovial fellow who introduced himself as Happy, and he quickly ushered them toward a helicopter. The idea of flying gave her pause—had she ever been in a helicopter before? For so long she’d been mired under the ground that just _walking_ along the streets had been an eye opening experience. What would it be like to see the world from so high above? Not that there would be much to see; night, cold and quiet, had fallen around them while they’d traveled.

It didn’t take long to get settled and strapped into the helicopter; Happy might have been talkative but he was also _efficient_ , and it only seemed like the blink of an eye before he was easing into the pilot’s seat. Emma felt her heart begin to pound as he fired up the engine and did his checks; she’d thought it several times before, but this was really _it._ In a matter of moments they would be zooming toward civilization, toward the great unknowns of actual society. Resuming a public identity wasn’t going to be easy. Aside from reconciling and making amends with whatever laid in her past, there were other responsibilities that she would be expected to take on—debt, taxes, rent, employment. All things she hadn’t worried about in a very long time; an even longer time for Bucky—how was he meant to fit into all of that? Was there some kind of rehabilitation program they could take part of, or would they be left to figure it all out on their own?

Her thoughts came to an abrupt halt as the helicopter lifted off, slowly at first and then all at once. The ground shrank down into the darkness, whipping away below them. Emma’s stomach dropped, her heart fluttering nervously, but everyone else looked relatively unaffected by the flight so she forced herself to keep her eyes open. Gradually, the inky wilderness gave way to the dim lights of the suburbs and then the denser, more chaotic lights of a city. They briefly touched down in another small, private airport in order to refuel—Happy kept enthusing that the helicopter was actually quite efficient and could make it all the way to their destination without trouble, but the aviation fuel was slightly cheaper outside of New York City.

It was the first time anyone had mentioned a destination and Emma wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Instinctively, she was nervous about the population density of such a large city—so many eyes to unknowingly keep track of them. But New York wasn’t DC—the streets of the Big Apple were narrower and countless, not unlike her serpentine tunnels of the underground. And, if nothing else, it was a city that Bucky had once considered home; perhaps that would be helpful to him as he adjusted more fully to life outside of HYDRA.

They flew through the remainder of Pennsylvania—at least, she assumed it was Pennsylvania—in good time. New York greeted them in an explosion of light—if she’d thought that earlier city had looked chaotic, it was nothing compared to this—even so late at night, Manhattan thrummed with activity. The helicopter eased down its altitude, making its way passed Grand Central Station, and the fact that she’d had any idea of where they were at all made Emma suspect that she was much more familiar with the city than she’d assumed. Within no time at all, they were approaching a high-rise tower; it was new and modern looking, parts of it still under construction, but the slick Stark Industries logo had been affixed and was blazingly bright. Had she been in a more poetic mood, she might have compared that sign to a welcoming beacon, but her energy reserves were rapidly depleting—it had to be well past midnight at this point, and she’d been up with the dawn—and the cynical part of her was wondering what horrors still laid in wait.

Their touchdown was uneventful, and Happy quickly ushered everyone from the landing pad into a sleek and ultra modern penthouse. They were politely informed by a voice from _absolutely nowhere_ —at her startled expression, Happy explained that it was just JARVIS, a proprietary AI that served as their butler—that Mr. Stark had been unavoidably detained and so guest suites had been prepared for them. Steve and Bucky both looked a little put out by that news, but Emma was thrilled; her limbs were weighing her down, eyes getting harder to keep open, and she had a feeling that a few hours of sleep would soothe everyone’s nerves a little.

As they trouped together into an elevator, Emma had a brief moment of panic—had separate rooms been prepared for each person individually? Bucky was the only stable constant in her life; they had been pressed and struggling together for so long now that she didn’t think she could sleep without knowing he was close by. But her fears were unfounded—Natasha must have said something ahead of time, or perhaps assumptions had simply been made—because they were both ushered toward the same set of rooms and politely bid goodnight.

The door slid open for them automatically, revealing a veritable apartment in its own right—stylish and impeccably decorated. It was open-air in construction, the living room and office banked by an impressive array of two story windows; the kitchen and eating nook, however, were both capped by a second story loft. It took a bit of effort to climb the flight of stairs, but the bedroom at the top was well worth expending the energy. It too was open-air, gazing out to the bank of windows and the impressive view of Manhattan that it contained. The only thing that really held her attention though was the bed—she hadn’t seen one since the motel, close to two weeks ago. This one was clean and large, outfitted with fluffy pillows and a soft-looking duvet. At the sight of it, Emma swayed on her feet before simply allowing herself to fall bodily onto the mattress.

Bucky laughed at her exaggerated flop. “Tired, sweetheart?”

“God,” she mumbled into one of the pillows, not even able to find the energy just to shift her head to the side, “it feels like I’ve been awake for a year.”

Single handed, he slipped her camping pack off and helped her struggle out of her coat and shoes. “It’s been a long day for everyone.”

She hummed in agreement. Their cozy morning felt eons away and it was hard to believe that they’d fought HYDRA mere _hours_ ago. “I’m sorry Stark wasn’t here,” she said, turning a little to meet his ice-colored gaze. “I know you want to get that arm taken care of as soon as possible.”

“It’s just as well,” he shrugged, an easy gesture despite the fact that she knew the inactive prosthetic was plaguing him. “I doubt there would’a been much he could’ve done tonight anyway.”

He deflected like that a lot, she realized, hiding his stress behind logic so as not to agitate the both of them. Wanting to take his mind off of it, Emma asked, “You wanna explore the room with me?”

They were in luxury accommodations, the likes of which she’d never seen. Even if she had all her memories to call back upon, she had a feeling that never once had she been set up in a suite quite so grand. It seemed a crime, really, that they’d explored the dingy motel room more than this place—she wanted to know the ins and outs of it, to revel in the high class convenience while she had the chance.

But Bucky just smiled and shook his head. “Doll, as much as I love your curious side, I don’t actually think you can stand right now and,” he slipped his own gear off, settling next to her on the bed, “to be honest, I’m not far behind you.” It took a bit of maneuvering to get the sheets down and to take off the sling, but once he was finished he offered his good arm out to her, an invitation to curl into his side. “How’s about we catch a little shut eye and explore in the morning, instead?”

* * *

For the first time in a _long_ time, Bucky slept like the dead, awakening only once around dawn when the automatic shutters began covering the windows. By the time he opened his eyes in earnest, it was mid-morning. Emma was already half-awake, one of her hands balled up into his shirt while the other absently carded through his hair. For once, they were surrounded by warmth and comfort—a far cry from the camping sites they’d been pitching—and a part of him was deeply tempted to just spend the rest of the day in bed. Why not, really? Didn’t they deserve it? They hadn’t experienced this sort of lazy peace since the tunnels, only now they actually had a bed to take pleasure from.

Of course, as soon as the idea struck upon him, he knew it wouldn’t happen. Between his arm, their new surroundings, and their uncertain circumstances, he doubted either of them would be overly content to stay in place for very long. He enjoyed the moment while it lasted, though. How many people took such simple pleasure for granted? Bucky never would; every minute he had with Emma was a gift, especially minutes like these. She was curled into him, her legs tangling with his, doing her best to both surround him and be surrounded _by_ him. He wouldn’t be so corny as to say that they were one in this moment, but there was an intrinsic understanding that seemed to flow between them, a knowing exchange of strength and support as they prepared for the day ahead.

Emma cracked open an eye and smiled sleepily at him, mumbling something that might have been, “G’morning.”

He felt his heart skip a beat—he was enamored of her, charmed by even these unthinking gestures. Yesterday had been a journey through hell for him—to see her fight, _knowing_ she had protection and watching her consciously choose _not_ use it. He’d fought against HYDRA like a wild animal, desperate to get to her side, wanting to shout at her to just turn on her shields. Part of him honestly didn’t understand it—what was the use of full body protection if she wouldn’t use it?—but he’d been self-aware enough to acknowledge that he was being blinded by his feelings. Because he _loved_ her, and nothing had been more terrifying than being forced to watch helplessly as she swallowed down all that gentle decency and made a truly dark decision. He didn’t hold it against her, not in a situation like that where they’d been ambushed and the tides had turned against them—if the only way to save her life had been to unleash the Winter Soldier, he’d have given in to that temptation in an instant—but it had made him heartsick to think she would willingly endure that trauma again.

They’d been so close to losing everything yesterday, to being captured by HYDRA. Had they lost that fight, death would have been more welcome than the torture that the cult had in store. But they hadn’t lost, _thank god_ , and something good had come from the aftermath of the confrontation. Sweet little Emma—whom he’d so recently realized was _The One_ for him—had admitted she loved him in return. In a brassy and kind of mean way, but that had only made him love her all the more.

Fighting down a goofy smile, Bucky tightened his arm around her and absently returned her lazy greeting. It was a curious morning, still locked as they were living moment to moment and yet knowing that the worst of their struggles had passed, that they were more or less safe now. In a lot of ways, their relationship had taken a backseat to other pressing issues—how long ago had their sultry interlude in the tunnels been?—and while there were still a lot of problems left ahead to face, for the first time it felt like they actually had the right to explore what could exist between them. And, _god_ , how he wanted romance, wanted to satisfy her on all the emotional and physical levels that he could and be satisfied in turn. For all the anxiety he felt over what the coming days could do to his mental state, he was excited for the opportunity to explore this intrinsic domesticity they’d long been denied.

Emma smoothed his hair back and gave him a questioning look, her storm-cloud eyes shining with curiosity. “You’re awfully quiet this morning,” she accused lightly.

“You complain when I talk too much and now when I’m quiet as well?” He smiled, joking, loving the easy communication between them. “There’s no pleasin’ you.”

“You blab at a thousand miles a minute,” she replied, rolling her eyes at him. “When you start getting stoic on me I just assume there’s something wrong.”

Bucky shook his head, running the fingers of his good hand along the delicate dips of her spine. “Just reflecting on our good fortune,” he said, indicating the room around them. “For a while there I wasn’t sure we were gonna make it, but we had to be due eventually.”

She burrowed deeper into the soft mattress and covers, curling into the warmth of him as she smiled, enthusing, “And what wonderful fortune it is! When was the last time that either of us slept a whole night through?”

He honestly could not remember. His sleep had always been stilted and irregular outside of the cryo-freeze. Even in the depths of the tunnels where he’d felt a measure of safety, he’d never adopted what one might consider a normal pattern—and he’d slept even less while they’d been on the run, trying to remain vigilant so that no one could get the drop on them. This was probably his first true night’s sleep since before HYDRA, probably even since before The War. It was such a small and simple thing to take pleasure from, and yet the amount of gratification he felt was nearly sinful.

Of course, given the rooms they’d been shown to, it would have been nearly impossible not to have a wonderful night. Stark’s idea of a guest suite was more in line with a luxury penthouse—then again, he’d also walked through what Stark considered a penthouse, so perhaps this wasn’t quite so surprising. “Certainly are fancy accommodations they’ve set us up in,” Bucky replied, taking in the painted brick and polished chrome accents of the bedroom. It was such a drastic difference from the squalor they’d been living in. “Really puts the last couple’a months into perspective.”

Emma hummed in agreement, no doubt thinking of the shanty she’d left behind—he wondered briefly if she missed it, even though the improvised hut couldn’t hold a candle to their current surroundings. Whatever her thoughts on the matter, she kept them to herself. Instead, she carefully ran her fingers over his wreck of a left arm and asked, “Are you nervous?”

“About meeting Stark?” He caught her fingers, twining them in his own as he shook his head. “Not really. Just wish I knew what he can do to help.” A dim recollection edged at the sides of his thoughts every time someone mentioned Stark—the vague image of a dandyish fast-talker who’d had more brains than he knew what to do with. He tried to fit the idea into place, saying, “I kinda remember his father, Howard—he was a real genius, but most of his ideas were so far ahead'a the available technology that a lot of his inventions couldn’t actually work.”

“Steve wouldn’t have consented to bringing us here if he didn’t think Stark could help,” she soothed. And wasn’t it funny to hear someone else putting their faith in Steve? She didn’t even really know the guy and she was standing up for him. But that’s how it always was with Steve—people gravitated toward him without really understanding why. “It’s probably more a matter of how long it’s going to take to devise and implement a solution.”

“Look at you, breakin’ out the scientist lingo!” Bucky smiled at the small jargon terms she’d casually thrown out—it wasn’t anything technical, but it _was_ different from the vocabulary she’d been using. It was nice to know that at least she was moving forward, even if his own mind refused to. “Hoping to make a good impression, Dr. Labelle?”

“You know, for the longest time I just didn’t _want_ to remember,” she confided, a pretty blush staining her ears and the delicate swells of her cheeks. “Now I’m actually kind of excited, like being here means something big to me.”

He could only imagine. When she’d been at the top of her game, the idea of meeting Tony Stark or visiting Stark Industries had probably been similar to that of winning the lottery—a fervent fantasy that would likely never happen. “Who knows? Day or two surrounded by scientists, and maybe all that practical knowledge will come rushin’ back to you.”

She smiled at that, but then tempered it down as if afraid it might seem like she was gloating. “What about you?” She asked carefully. “Have you gotten anything back yet?”

“I’m remembering more’n more’a the context,” he replied on a shrug, trying not to let her see how deeply he was still bothered by his fickle memories, “but nothin’ specific.”

She nodded softly, her hands carding soothingly through his hair as she assured him, “I’m sure it’s only a matter of time now.”

To be honest, Bucky didn’t really want to dwell on it; he’d rather meet his challenges head on as they arose than constantly worry about things he had no control over. And in that spirit, he was still eager to get his arm looked at—even in the midst of safety, being partially handicapped left him feeling edgy and somehow less useful. With vague ideas of showering and finding something to eat, he carefully disentangled himself from the bed and offered his hand out to Emma. “Come on,” he urged, “if we lollygag much longer they’ll probably send someone to check up on us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one thing you can always count on with Tony is that you can't actually count on him.
> 
> A huge thank you to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, especially to aorangeinboston, bowdowntothequeenlp, zai_make_it_awesome, PedobearSmiles, Monokhrome, jjgoodhope, Meg, BubbleBakePenguinePie, PrimaDea, Rogers_Girl, and DarknessEvernight13 for leaving wonderful comments. Also thank you to everyone for being so patient with my wonky schedule!


	23. Chapter Twenty Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky vigorously defends his crown as the King of Inappropriate Timing.
> 
> See end of chapter for content warnings.

Emma still couldn’t believe her eyes—their guest suite was the epitome of modern architecture and convenience. Some of it was so advanced that she felt as if she’d stepped into one of those ‘Home of Tomorrow’ cartoons she’d seen as a child. The downside was that there was a bit of a learning curve when it came to finding and operating nearly anything; in fact, it took several minutes just to figure out where the bathroom was, let alone how to get into it.

The bathroom door was flush with the bedroom wall and was only demarcated by the fact that it was a series of panels in the perfect shape of a door. After multiple failed attempts to pry it open, JARVIS—and she was still weirded out by the idea that they were under constant surveillance, even if it _was_ just by a programed butler—politely informed them that the door used a pressure mechanism to open. Sheepishly, Bucky had pressed back on the door, letting go at the soft click that followed. It had then popped forward a few inches and slid easily to the side, revealing what could only be described as heaven on Earth.

The bathroom had to be at least half the size of the bedroom, a huge affair done up in sandy marble, rich, dark woods, and brass accents. It was equipped like a hedonist’s fantasy—the massive shower that dominated the entire back wall easily had up to nine different jets and the bath, which was big enough to be a hot tub or a small swimming pool, was fed by the gentle patter of a three-tiered waterfall. Even the sinks were radical in their design: shallow, sweeping basins highlighted by minimalistic faucets.

It was worlds away from the last couple of bathrooms they’d seen. The nicest one of all those been in the little house they’d broken into—it had been clean and inviting, the grandest luxury she had been capable of imagining at the time—and it couldn’t hold a candle to this. _This_ was a day-spa masquerading as an average convenience. Not so long ago she wouldn’t have thought she had the right to enjoy this sort of amenity, now she was itching to press every dial and button in sight.

But Bucky interrupted her before she’d managed to do much more than stare in opened-mouth wonder, asking, “Tub or shower?”

Emma pulled her eyes away from the mirror—the corner of which doubled as a master control panel—and returned with an inarticulate, “What?”

He smiled patiently and gestured to his left side. “I’ve only got one arm, sweetheart, I’m gonna need some help gettin’ cleaned up.” She watched as he valiantly tried _and failed_ to cover up a suggestive smile. “So would you rather we use the tub or the shower?”

She remembered their last adventure in getting cleaned up—if it hadn’t been for the threat of Neo-Nazis, they would have taken far more advantage of that little house than was strictly forgivable. He did have a point, though; with only one arm it would take him far too long to bathe on his own, to say nothing of how awkward and frustrating he’d likely find the experience. However, the hot gleam in his eyes was suggesting it was going to take them a long time regardless. “While I concede to your logic, a part of me is deeply suspicious that you’re going to use the situation to your advantage.”

“You know me so well,” he replied, giving her a downright filthy grin. “Not that either of us really _need_ the excuse—I think we’re both honest enough to admit that keepin’ our hands to ourselves will be next to impossible. But, hey, might as well dress it up under the guise of assistance.”

She quirked a brow, fighting down a smile as she attempted to deadpan, “I worry about your train of thought sometimes.”

“I think you worry more that you often share it,” Bucky returned knowingly. And he wasn’t wrong; for all his glib words and carefree attitude, it was amazing how frequently their thoughts really _were_ in line with each other.

But that didn’t mean she was entirely prepared to give him what he wanted. A part of her—some dim voice that was murmuring cautions—was holding back. So, she attempted to gloss over his suggestive words instead. Businesslike, Emma carried on, “The shower would probably be quicker, but you’re so much taller than me that it would be difficult to really help you unless you got on your knees.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth she knew she’d made a mistake.

And he, always lightning quick on the uptake, latched onto it immediately. “That a proposition?” He purred delightedly, moving closer—he couldn’t quite box her in, not with only one arm, but Bucky was nothing if not quick on his feet. Before she even realized he was maneuvering her, he had her up against the wall. They pressed close, toe to toe, his good arm flat to the wall from elbow to wrist as he leaned down to whisper in her ear. His voice had dropped an octave, the rich timbre doing funny things to her heart as he murmured, “Because, doll, let me tell you: _I am game to try.”_

The sudden image of it took her breath away: him on his knees before her, that devilish, smirking look peeking up at her through hooded lashes as he ghosted his lips over the soft flesh of her belly. He would tease her, she was sure of that; tease, taunt, and draw out the moment until she was ragged from begging for that final pleasure. There was a playful sadism in him, a certain good-natured love of torment that let her know he would enjoy watching her squirm, enjoy watching her eyes cloud over with glossy mindlessness. Some deep-seated instinct told her that sex with Bucky would be difficult—because, really, everything with him ultimately was—but the gratification would be mind-blowing.

A new image came to her, the memory of how he’d looked freshly showered. His tight skin had been slick with water, silky droplets caressing the hard ridges of his impressive musculature as they fell from him. Even in the tunnels, covered in filth and acting like a machine, she’d considered him handsome; clean and playful, he was downright devastating. Her mouth went dry, a burning ache kindling to life low in her belly.

And yet Emma still held herself aloof, some train of thought not quite making it to her conscious mind but guiding her words all the same. She swallowed roughly, fighting against the temptation to stroke the raw maleness before her. Voice quiet, words strangled, she spoke as if he hadn’t propositioned her, “The tub, though, is more than big enough, and it might ease some muscle strain to have your prosthetic arm submerged.”

“Fair point,” Bucky conceded easily, but his smoldering look remained. “We’ll just hafta put a pin in the interesting shower position ‘til later.” The surety of that statement was so absolute that its inherent promise could not be mistaken—her knees wobbled at his seductive vow.

Truth be told, she still had trouble accepting that the future could hold more, that life was _about_ more than simply maintaining course. For them sex hadn’t always been a possibility and, when it had, it had existed so far off into the future that she hadn’t often felt the need to contemplate it, especially not of late. And yet, here they were, standing together at a precipice; she sought to guide them back while he was uncaring into which abyss they fell. Her thoughts weren’t adapting to this behavioral change—once more, she saw in him the bravery to snatch at what he desired while she was content to merely pine for it. “You’re going to make this impossible, aren’t you?”

He leaned closer, brushing kisses along the exposed curve of her neck. “I don’t know what you mean,” he breathed out between kisses, somehow managing to sound perfectly genuine even when teasing her.

Emma wanted to purr at the caress, so soft and fleeting. Entirely without her permission, her hands dove into his hair, cradling him closer even as she attempted to talk the both of them out of intimacy. “Don’t you dare try that innocent act with me—that ship sailed ages ago.” If it had ever existed at all; even at his most dour, he’d never exactly been _innocent_. “Every other thing you’ve said thus far has been so overtly sexual it doesn’t even count as innuendo.”

Bucky cocked his head, blue-fire eyes lazily peeking up at her through his dark lashes. “First of all, I figured you’d like the direct approach because you are a very direct woman.” He darted in quickly to lay an affectionate kiss at the base of her jaw, then continued, “Second, we _are_ allowed to relax, you know.”

With sudden clarity, she realized what was really holding her back. That dim part of her was stuck in survival mode. Over the course of their flight, their touches had once more grown platonic—there hadn’t been any time or attention to spare for more heated exchanges. Their last interlude had been nearly two weeks ago and they’d been subsisting on the mere comfort of each other’s presence since then. Granted, their future was still uncertain, but they were safer now than they had ever been. There was no real reason to hold apart any more, no hurdle left standing between them. Why shouldn’t she enjoy intimacy with the man she love and who _very vocally_ loved her in return?

“I clearly forgot how flirty you are when you aren’t stressed out.” It was a nice change of pace, to be perfectly honest.

He waggled his eyebrows at her, radiating good humor. “Is that a complaint?”

“Not entirely,” she replied, allowing her hands to drop to his shoulders. Her fingers carefully traced the broad expanse of his collarbones and, all too soon, she felt the thick scar tissue and cold metal plating of his prosthetic even through the thickness of his shirt. At the first touch, her eyes zeroed in on the sight of his useless left arm, and she remembered that while there weren’t precisely hurdles to jump anymore, there was a certain amount of social expectation laying at their feet. They’d come to Stark Tower for a reason and, this late in the morning, she had no doubt that others were already waiting for them. It didn’t seem practical to indulge just yet, no matter how tempting. “Do you really think _now_ is an appropriate time?”

Bucky drew away slightly, standing to his full height as he cocked his head and told her, “Inappropriate behavior requires inappropriate timing.”

She could only laugh at the honesty of his answer. “So that’s a yes on being impossible, then.”

Emma’s mirth died quickly though, her mouth going dry when he pulled his shirt up and off. She had seen him naked precisely twice—and both times only _half_ naked at that—but the beauty of his bared chest could not be overstated. He was broad in a primitively satisfying way, roped with intriguing dips of muscle that pulled tight into a set of whippish, narrow hips. She’d seen bigger, bulkier men—Steve, for example, nearly dwarfed him—but it was his restraint with all that lean power that really turned her on. Bucky moved with fluid grace and a serene economy of effort; she’d witnessed how easily his strength could be turned to brutality, and yet with her he was _always_ gentle. The sight of his sinewy abs, tight pecs, and the curious contrast between shiny metal and tan skin finally made her throw caution to the wind.

Flushing, she bit her lip and admitted, “To be honest though, maybe I feel a little bit like being impossible myself.” Why not? They deserved this moment. Maybe it would be a little rude to keep people waiting but, honestly, after a week and a half of running for their lives, who would blame them for wanting a moment to relax?

He smiled at her words, not smug or gloating, merely content that they were on the same page, that the moment was right for both of them. With that strange grace that a man his size shouldn’t possess, he drew in close again, swooping down to catch her lips.

The kiss was electric, a searing hot caress that invited her to explore him. She opened her mouth, tongue darting out to lick at the seam of his lips, sighing in pleasure when he opened for her. There was no battle for dominance, no struggle to control the encounter; they both gave and took pleasure by turns, working in tandem to drive the burning ache of desire into frenzied heights.

Her hands restlessly sought out the smooth skin exposed to her, and she smiled when she felt him return the favor. Bucky’s fingers slipped up under her shirt, teasing around the edges of her bra before sliding under that too. He thumbed one nipple and then the other, smirking into their kiss at the small keen his simple touches drew from her. Feeling bold, wanting more, Emma broke away to shuck her upper garments, blushing deeply as he studied her. He merely stared for several long moments, drinking his fill—if anything marred the goofy, adoring expression on his face it was only the brief shadow of frustration that he didn’t have both hands to explore her with.

Not wanting him to dwell on what was only a temporary handicap, she reached out, allowing her curious hands to map his torso, to find all the imperfections and scars and lavish them with attention. He tensed when her tongue ran along the ragged seam dividing man and machine, but later groaned when she revisited the area with a hint of teeth.

Not to be outdone, he sank to his knees, shooting her a sultry smile not unlike the one she’d imagined he might wear. Even on his knees, Bucky’s gaze was nearly level with her breasts—a view he seemed to take _great_ pleasure in—and he wasted no time in worshiping that flesh. His mouth strayed from between her pale mounds, licking and kissing a path that inevitably began to trail down her belly. She tried to assist his journey by unbuttoning her pants, but he shooed her hands away before she even reached the fly, instead encouraging her to run her fingers through his hair. By the time his lips met the rough barrier of her jeans Emma was squirming, her hips stuttering with involuntary thrusts, trying to seek out more friction. He took no mercy on her, dark gaze watching through darker lashes as he popped the button and used his _teeth_ to drag her zipper down.

Held immobile by the pure satisfaction radiating from his hooded regard, she felt like the air had been punched straight from her lungs. His earlier look hadn’t been sultry in the least, not compared to this. This was _sin incarnate_ , a temptation so absolute that it drew a weak, “Holy shit,” from her suddenly numb lips.

Bucky’s smile bloomed slow and evil as he drew her pants down just a few inches. “You havin’ fun yet?”

His breath was hot against the skin of her abdomen, but his mouth wasn’t exactly where she wanted it. The real crux of her desire was several inches further down and he seemed to be taking a perverse sort of pleasure in willfully ignoring that. Dimly, Emma realized that he’d been teasing her with the idea of oral sex ever since her inadvisable comment, but the reality of his willfully obtuse behavior now was almost cruel—for such a compassionate man, he could be surprisingly mean when it amused him. Voice cracking at the anticipation he’d built in her, at the burn of this stalled pleasure, she told him, “You are tormenting me and it simultaneously makes me want to absolutely take your breath away and crack you upside the head.”

If possible, his grin grew even more viciously pleased. “Solid ten outta ten, then,” he replied, easing her pants down another inch.

She narrowed her eyes at him, growling and fisting his hair playfully. “More like seven and a half out of ten; I’d be having more fun if you—” Her statement cut off abruptly, ending instead in a shriek.

Bucky got her pants down and off with superhuman speed, his head buried between her legs before she even had time to realize what was happening. The caress of his mouth upon that intimate, eager flesh was astounding. Raw electricity roared through Emma’s womb, racing up her spine to short circuit her thoughts, curling her toes as she leaned back onto the wall for support. He was thorough, meticulous, laving at her clit while his fingers teased her hungry entrance until the build up was nearly painful. Pleasure mounted upon itself, soaring her to greater heights, and yet the emptiness—the unbearable hollowness of her inner muscles clenching down around nothing at all—was driving her mad. He invaded that wet heat with one finger, then two, and the stretch was magnificent. But the novelty quickly wore off; he was almost comically larger than her, so while his fingers held a pleasing girth they were really no substitute for the more invasive length of his shaft. Orgasm stayed just out of reach, plateau after plateau mocking her with the realization that this earth-shattering pleasure simply wasn’t enough. As skillful as his mouth and fingers were, there was really only one way to satisfy the ravenous ache within her.

Seeming to come to the same conclusion, Bucky made a feral noise deep in his chest and gave her clit one last teasing swipe. When he looked up at her, his eyes were like those of the wolf that she so often compared him to—animalistic, predatory, hungry. The gentle, playful man she loved was still very much present, but in this moment he’d let the hunter come to the fore. The focused intent in his gaze coupled with the twisting pressure still throbbing through her made Emma’s knees buckle.

He stood with astonishing speed, catching her in the blink of an eye. And, even with only one arm, he still effortlessly hoisted her up, carrying her toward the lavish tub. He set her on a shallow ledge just beside the placid waterfall, moving back to strip his pants off. His belt was divested easily but then he started teasing her, drawing out the moment of reveal as he slowly popped open his button. The twin ropes of muscle that cut his hips into a powerful V were bisected by a dusky trail of hair that disappeared behind his zipper—a zipper that he was dragging down so lazily she actually _snarled_ at him.

Emma had reached her limit; if he wanted to tease some more, he would have to do it later. She surged forward, hooking her thumbs into his belt loops to draw his pants down. When his cock finally sprang free, she merely stared for a moment. While she had no functional memory to draw upon for comparison he seemed _big_ , not disproportionate but _solid_ in a very thrilling kind of way. Eager to explore that rigid maleness, she leaned forward, trailing kisses down the silky hair of his abdomen until she reached his base. Her tongue flattened, drawing along the side of his shaft in a warm caress, but she never reached the flushed head—Bucky drew in a sharp breath and impatiently pulled his pants the rest of the way off while easing her back.

He joined her beside the waterfall, kissing her hungrily as he wedged himself between her thighs. She’d always considered his hips narrow, but the truth was that they were only slim in comparison to the broadness of his shoulders—her legs were spread wide to accommodate him. His cock laid along the lips of her sex—tormenting her entrance with a slow drag that didn’t end in penetration—the head bumping and grinding against her clit, sending spasm after spasm through her empty core. She’d been right: sex with him _was_ hard because he drew the moment out past the point of sanity.

Emma’s world narrowed down to the wet, unfulfilled heat aching inside her, the seething anticipation finally exploding in resolve. She broke away from their kiss, torsioning her hips in order to roll them, to draw him beneath her. He went easily—the dead weight of his arm finally supported by the ledge—a wide smile on his lips as he watched her mount him. For all that raw masculinity surging to his surface, he didn’t seem affronted by her wanting to be on top—if anything, he was even more visibly turned on by her taking charge.

And take charge she did. After an awkward moment of repositioning, she sank down onto him. The burning stretch of that invasion was almost uncomfortable—muscles that hadn’t been used in years were forced apart to welcome Bucky’s length and girth—and yet at the same time it was so deliciously fulfilling that she couldn’t stop herself from drawing up and sinking down again. Her hands flew to his shoulders, leaning in to the solid strength of him as she found her rhythm. After delaying the moment for so long she was hardly gentle, her hips undulating in frantic snaps, but he groaned in wanton relief at her frenzied pace, his own hips flexing up to meet her. They moved together, moaning and shouting, exploring this new dimension of intimacy.

It drew to a close all too soon. Bucky’s counter-rhythm began to stutter, his deep vocalizations cracking as he neared the edge. Emma, not far behind him, threw herself into it, single-mindedly pistoning her hips, chasing the faint flutter that was threatening to explode throughout her core. His hand gripped her tightly, a noise like that of a wounded animal cascading through his chest as he ultimately gave in. The hot pulse of his release finally pushed her over the elusive precipice, her vision whiting out as wave after wave of unbearable pleasure clenched at her inner muscles.

Nirvana faded after several tense moments and she slumped against him, taking comfort in the nearness and connection that they shared. He followed in kind, wrapping his arm around her as he laid soothing kisses atop her head, petting and stroking as if he couldn’t bear _not_ to touch her. It took a while to find their voices again—something she took pride in considering how mouthy he usually was—but the first thing that spilled from his lips was, “Two weeks through hell was a small price to pay,” followed quickly by, “I love you.”

Those words had made Emma defensive before—shy and unsure if it was wise to love him in return—but right now they elated her, filled her with an easy warmth that couldn’t be denied. Blissed out in a way she was certain she _never_ had been before, she curled up to Bucky’s shoulder, whispering those three powerful words back against his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Semi to fully graphic sex. They finally, finally have sex. Tags updated to reflect this.
> 
> Fingers crossed that it was worth the wait for everyone; I always get nervous writing smut.
> 
> As ever, big thanks to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, particularly to BubbleBakerPenguinPie, bowdowntothequeenlp, DarknessEvernight13, Monokhrome, aorangeinboston, PedobearSmiles, and Lammstrellicon for their lovely comments!


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